


Awful Aspirations

by VSprites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alphard Black - Freeform, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Black Family, Canon Compliant, Comfort/Angst, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Het, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Mulciber - Freeform, Out of Character Voldemort (Harry Potter), Possibly Unrequited Love, Pre-Hogwarts, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Rise of Voldemort, Teenage Drama, Unrequited Love, War with Grindelwald, riddle, teenage love, young Voldemort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-09-16 10:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16952190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VSprites/pseuds/VSprites
Summary: They hadn't always been cruel. Nor Death Eaters. Once, they were little more than mere children. Then, they met a boy, who was as mysterious as he was charming.





	1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter; its copyright belongs to J. K. Rowling._

* * *

_Prologue_

Smoke-grey clouds conspired to hide the afternoon sun, abiding by the dreary picture of the courtyard of Wool's Orphanage. Bands of boys and girls were scattered about, in their grey, patched jackets and dust-covered accordion skirts. It was far from the season for  _visit days_ , so no one particularly cared about looking all neat and tidy. Jack Hayes' flushed cheeks were blemished black by dirt and the charcoals used for drawing; his brown hair was as tangled as it was foul-smelling.

Hot showers came once a month, if one behaved well. As he heaved Jack up by the collar, Ray Hawkins found that the smaller boy obviously didn't care for their cold variety.

"Where'd you hide 'em?" Ray had a distinctively unkind face; he was thirteen years old, and the odds of him ever finding a family had become null years ago. His sunken, beady grey eyes glinted with predatory amusement.

"I-I don't! Your deck 'o cards? I didn't take 'em. Swear to God!" Jack pleaded. His hands were concealed by the sleeves of his oversized jacket.

"Search him again anyhow, gents," Ray's command was heeded without question. The retinue of younger boys closed around Jack, like covetous pigeons around a charitable bird feeder.

There was a mucky handkerchief and some breadcrumbs in Jack's trouser pockets, but no cards. The boys then checked the flap pockets of his jacket, and then his inner pockets; nothing. His shoes were removed, and groping hands thrust into his trousers.

"He doesn't have 'em, Ray. All tut and crumbs." said Willie, a scrawny blonde boy, whose jacket fit him like a blazer on a chimpanzee.

"Damn it all. 'Ight, well piss off then, Jack," Ray let go of the younger boy's collar, turned him around, and gave a shove. Jack fell to the floor, but hastily rose and scurried away. Ray watched him go. "We've picked at every rouser already. Reckon it could be one of the girls?"

"There's one more..." murmured Earn, a boy with long, sandy hair, the quietest of the gang.

"Who's that, then?"

"You won't like him," Earn whispered, with all the foreboding a twelve-year-old boy could muster.

"Good thing I ain't looking to kiss him then, aye?" Chuckles rose. Ray's sunken eyes pranced from boy to boy, savouring the esteem they gave to his joke. "Well - who is it, then?"

"Tom… Riddle." Earn's thin voice cracked. He looked at the ground, as though the very mention of Riddle's name would precipitate his wrath.

A daunting silence infected the air between the boys, like an inkwell spilling onto a bare sheet of paper. Earn's faint, blue eyes darted from boy to boy, pleading -  _please, please don't even consider this_. Although none of the boys had any first-hand experience with Tom Riddle, they've all heard the rumours of his exploits. There must be a reason Mrs. Cole gave Tom Riddle an entire room to himself, when even teenagers approaching adulthood still had to share their's.

"Let's get him then, lads." Ray's hesitant face contorted into his usual expression of haughty confidence.

"Ray…" Earn whispered.

"What? There's five of us, and one of him. Don't be yellow now, aye?" Ray nudged Willie, whose petrified expression melted into a parody of Ray's self-assurance.

"Yeah, c'mon Earnie." Willie pressured.

"Fine." Although Earn's qualms didn't subside, he didn't want to seem faint-hearted in front of the other boys.

"C'mon then, let's go." As Ray strode through the yard, flanked by two boys on either side, the other grey-garbed orphans scampered to make way.

A few paces ahead of them was the gnarled, ancient, and leafless yew tree, the branches of which lurked in disquiet like a gigantic, hibernating octopus loosely dispensed over the furtive weeds of the ocean's bed. They almost failed to notice the slight, sitting figure of Tom Riddle, whose dark eyes were focused on the practicsed shuffling of cards in his hands.

"Riddle! Give 'em here." Ray's voice was firm.

"No." To the uninitiated, Tom Riddle's high pitched, slightly nasal voice would have been disregarded as that of an ordinary nine year boy's. The goosebumps that oozed through Earn and Willie's skins disagreed.

"I won't ask again. Give 'em here, now!" Ray shouted, as though seeming outwardly angry would quell the fear whisking in his stomach.

"You should leave." Riddle said, sounding bored.

"Or what? Your circus tricks won't work here. You can't run!" Ray strode up to Riddle, the other boys following. Riddle adeptly straightened the cards, pocketed them, and stood up. His neatly combed black hair hardly reached Ray's chest.

"They're not circus tricks. Y _ou should know that by now._ " Riddle sneered, his face just about pressing against Ray's chest.

"Oh yeah, why don't you do something, then? We're more than you, five to one." Ray pressed further against Riddle; from a distance, it would have seemed like the two were hugging with all but arms.

Riddle stepped back; for a moment, Ray had thought he conceded. Instead, the space he vacated revealed the tree's dark hollow, girdled by several tortuously twisted, moss-crusted branches. An unpleasant smile formed on Riddle's face, cruel dimples emerging.

_"Ssshiihaassiii... niisaayas...hasaayiii.."_

"What are you playing at, you- Argh!" Ray was tripped over; a small, chalk-white snake had spurted from the lightless hollow of the tree, and coiled itself around Ray's ankle. All the other boys screamed and ran.

After shoving the large gate of the dormitory building open, and sprinting up a set of creaking stairs, Willie Stewart pounded at door after door. He was looking for Frank Lehmann; the only person, apart from Mrs. Cole herself, who was able to intimidate and discipline Riddle. For some reason, Riddle's sinister antics just didn't register properly around adults. At least, not yet.

"Frankie! Frankie!"

"Bloody hell, what's the matter with you?" Frank Lehmann's disheveled, burly seventeen-year old figure appeared out of a doorway from which he had to stoop to exit. Willie felt a pang of envy at Frank being allowed to wear his own clothes, even if it was only a pair of waist-high plaid brown trousers and a loose-fitting shirt.

"Riddle! Riddle got a snake to a-attack Ray!"

"Ah, damn it. Riddle making a right fuss again? Pray, the boy's got the Devil in him. Let's go."

Frank leisurely walked down the stairs, as though he were going to collect a cup of tea from the kettle, rather than deal with Riddle and his belligerent snake. Striding through the courtyard, Frank whistled atonally, as he massaged his unkempt black hair. The warped sight of the leafless yew tree did not startle him.

"Riddle! Freak-boy! Get the snake off Ray, now! I said  _now!_ " Frank barked.

Tom Riddle's expression contorted into a fearful one, as he began to rapidly hiss at the snake. The snake loosened, but as it did, Ray propped himself up, and tackled Riddle onto the grass. The snake, which looked like it had just initiated the process of retreating into the bushes, turned course, and set itself on Ray's neck. Ray rolled off Riddle, his hands scrambling to remove the snake around his neck. His face rapidly reddened.

With the firm grip of his left hand, Frank seized the snake off Ray's neck. In his right hand, was a tapered pocket knife, with a biscuit-brown wooden handle.

One moment the snake was frenziedly flailing in Frank's grasp. The next, it became limp, like the dismembered, unnaturally long arm of a child's corpse, with droplets of blood trickling onto the grass.


	2. The Sliding Door

The sleek silver hands of Langston Mulciber's watch marked the time as 10:46. The Hogwarts express was to depart in less than fifteen minutes.

" _Well c_ _ome on, chaps. Get a grip._ " Langston muttered to himself, his sharp, blue eyes scanning through the window, in search of his tardy friends on platform 9¾. They were entering third year; it was time to stop behaving like children.

Thankfully, the door of his compartment began to noiselessly slide. It would be the first time that Dru or Jace used a pulling charm in practice. A small sense of pride flickered in Langston's chest. However, the opened door revealed neither the stout, blonde-haired frame of Druettus Avery, nor the gangly, hunchbacked figure of Jacen Spritedust.

Instead, standing at the doorway was a small, pale boy, with neatly combed black hair, and his dark eyes focused on Langston.

"Hello, may I sit with you?" The boy asked.

"Sure."

"Thank you. Good to meet you; I'm Tom Riddle."

The boy positioned himself directly across Langston. Who was this boy? His body language displayed no sign of concession of fear, as was due from a firstie - however, he had opened the door with magic; even Langston wasn't able to do that, until second year. Maybe his family had instructed him? But Langston didn't know any Riddles, and the boy's robes looked rather tattered. Was he a mudblood?

"My name's Langston. Langston Emory Mulciber."

"Well, Langston, you seem like an able wizard. Are you?" Riddle's head slightly tilted, his small lips curving into smile.

The question threw Langston off - what was the mudblood playing at? Perhaps he sensed the dismissive tone in Langston's voice, and was juggling to keep himself in Langston's good graces. Although arrogance was not a Slytherin virtue, a sense of self-worth was.

"I can hold my own just fine."

"Oh, I've no doubt about that." Riddle's angled head still held the annoyingly infectious smile.

The boy was trying to flatter him, and he knew. He suspected the boy knew that he knew, and that, despite his self-awareness, Riddle's charm was working.

"Would you mind showing me your magic? I'd be honoured."

"We're in a train compartment." replied Langston, flatly.

"Something small, perhaps?"

"If you insist."

Withdrawing his wand, Langston conjured two sheets of paper. A folding charm made them into two small, humanoid figures. A smile curved on Langston's lips as he performed the animating charm, a sixth year spell. The two paper-men stood up and faced one another. Langston casted a glance at Riddle, who already looked immersed at the display.

" _Fámulis animam tuam._ " The two paper-men then turned to one another, and began to start wordlessly and wandlessly cast hexes and jinxes at one another. Langston watched enthusiastically, as the two paper-men were now supposed to be imbued with his personality. Both were set to hate the other.

He recognised each of the micro-spells the paper men cast, as they would be the same that he'd choose in a duel. His older brother, Thorell, had taught him the personality-imbuing spell, which was not in the Hogwarts syllabus. It was something to do with Thorell's elusive job in Germany.

The taller paper-man successfully tripped his opponent with a conjured, miniature rope. Without a second of merciful thought, the taller paper-man incinerated his opponent, who moaned in a way that comically sounded halfway between that of a man in pain and the burning of cinders in a fireplace.

"Brilliant." Riddle dipped his chin in approval. There was respect in his eyes, but not adoration - as Langston had hoped. Respect, however, was sufficient.

"You aren't shabby yourself, for a mudblood, you know." A feeling of regret passed Langston as quickly it came. The boy, if he were to amount to anything, would need to know what he was, after all. "Few firsties could cast a pulling charm like that. That smoothly, I mean. The door made no sound."

"A mudblood?" Riddle's reply came with surprising quickness. Although the smile remained on his face, a dark, serious sheen came across his eyes, which seemed to say,  _whatever a mudblood is, I am definitely not._

Feeling a strange and sudden need to justify himself, Langston made haste to reply.

"Well, your parents aren't magical, are they? Anyhow, we address the magical kids born from muggle parents as mudbloods, because their blood is, well, thick and mucky, much like that of mud."

As he finished speaking, Langston realised that his hand was firmly clasping his wand. He internally chided himself for fearing an unsorted first year.

"I grew up in an orphanage with filthy muggles. Never met my parents, but I'm not a mudblood. What's a pulling charm?" Riddle spoke, as if he were merely stating a fact, and not redressing an insult.

Langston considered this; the boy did feel powerful- a mudblood would not dare to seek him as company. Riddle's face and eyes seem oddly contended again, as if Langston had never slighted him. For some strange reason, Langston felt that the boy did not, in fact, suddenly forget his slight.

"You don't know what a pulling charm is? Are you trying to be queer? You opened the door with it. Static wand motion, and all."

"Wand? Oh, no. I opened it with my hand. Would you like to see?" Riddle inferred that Langston could not, like he supposedly could,  _wandlessly_  open a door. Langston wondered if Riddle was trying to impress him by deception; not even Thorell could perform controlled, wandless magic to that extent until he was in sixth year.

As Riddle's forearm raised at the door, the door opened, but with an accompanying sound that suggested it had been opened from the outside, by hasty, physical force. Langston's two imbecile friends had, at last, arrived. Druettus Avery's beefy figure was followed by Jacen Spritedust's tall, hunchbacked one. Jace's arm was around the waist of a short, ponytailed blonde second-year Ravenclaw, whose name began with V and who belonged to the Maestro family.

"Mulce, good to see you, mate." said Dru, before slumping down besides Langston.

"And you, Dru."

"Hey, Mulce." said Jacen, as he gestured for the Maestro girl to sit besides Tom, perhaps so that she would be sandwiched between them, and thus be in an awkward position to leave.

"Jace, how was your break? Busy, I presume?" With the implication, Langston winked at the Maestro girl, who slightly blushed.

"All right, I suppose. Chaps, Veronica will be ragging with us for the day. Who's the kid?" Jacen dramatically gestured at the girl, as if displaying a particularly impressive work of transfiguration.

"Hullo." Veronica quietly said.

"Dru, Jace - allow me to introduce Tom Riddle. He is going to show us something." Langston gestured at the door. However, before Riddle could reach his arm out again, Druettus Avery interrupted.

 _"Riddle?_  Mulce, a  _mudblood?_  Really -" But as Dru reached for his wand, Langston knew it was too late.

" _Avis!_ " Riddle's high-pitched voice punctured through the compartment, as a small, emerald-green bird shot at Druettus Avery's face, rapidly pecking him like a dart returning over and over against a board. Langston stifled a snort.

"Stop. Get that- counter- Mulce! Muddy little -" Dru's hands were scrambling against his face, as Jacen unsuccessfully tried to disperse the bird. Langston, however, was for the moment too marvelled at the fact that Riddle had managed to not only perform a sixth-year conjuration charm, but also somehow turned his subject into a weapon against Dru.

" _Finite Incantatem!_ " The bird was gone; not by any of the third-year Slytherins' doing, but by that of a heavily blushing Veronica Maestro. Jacen proudly patted her back.

Dru's expression was somewhere between an expression of panic and a glaring scowl. Riddle's face looked impassive, a single eyebrow lifted, with his wand aimed directly at Dru's face.

"Now, now, let's all cool down. As I was saying, Riddle shall show us something." Langston interceded in a prim tone, assuming authority.

For a brief moment, Druettus looked defiant. However, as he weighed his options, he decided to concede, and rested into the padding of the compartment couch.

Riddle withdrew his wand, and raised his bare hand. With his thumb crossed against his palm, Riddle slightly inclined his fingers in the direction of the door, causing it to gracefully slide into closure. For a while, all were too scared and too beholden to break the silence engendered by Riddle's wandless magic.

Within an hour, however, the tension had mostly dissipated. Dru and Jace were engaged in a conversation that capriciously fluctuated between the topics of their holidays, Quidditch, Grindelwald and the girls of their year, never mind that Veronica Maestro was slumped against Jace, his shoulder a pillow for her head.

Riddle had revealed to to Langston that his first time at Diagon Alley was unaccompanied. Having spent several hours at Flourish and Blotts, Riddle managed to memorise a small arsenal of spells, which included the sixth year bird-conjuring charm. Unable to afford anything apart from his second-hand first year textbooks, Riddle asked Langston if he could borrow some of his.

Hours passed as Riddle altered between reading Langston's  _The First Principles of Warding_  and  _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3_ , practicing some of the charms and jinxes of the latter to an astonishing degree of accuracy, looking out the window, and occasionally asking Langston questions about the wizarding world.

Langston and Jacen bid Riddle farewell, as they parted ways respectively for the threstral carriages, and the boats of the Black Lake.

Seated in the great hall, disappointed murmurs spread through the Slytherin table as they came to realise that neither the head boy or girl was of their house; the first time in three years without a Slytherin representative in the head prefect positions. Langston noticed that the entourage of new students included a dozen or so older students, who Dippet's introductory speech explicated as refugees from the continent, fleeing 'Grindelwald's cause.' A few of the Slytherins around Langston snickered.

Sorting began with Tiberius Aadnevik's placement into Ravenclaw. Whereas most around him, including Dru, Jace, Mitcham Parkinson and Osanna Nightingale looked bored and somewhat impatient for the feast to begin, Langston anxiously waited for the name of Riddle to be called. Alphard Black's placement into Slytherin was met with roaring applause. As Jules Ohlandt was sorted into Hufflepuff, Langston's heartbeat hastened to the enthusiastic clapping of the badger-house.

"Riddle, Thomas."

Riddle confidently strode to the stool, placing himself on it as though he had run through the sorting ceremony a dozen times before. Almost as soon as professor Merrythought placed the hat on Riddle's head, it barked, with seemingly absurd enthusiasm, "Slytherin!"

Predictably, Riddle's welcoming applause was by far the least cheerful of his lot; Slytherin house rarely received a newcomer with an unfamiliar surname. Although Langston's mirthless, calculated claps ceased as they came, he could not help but smirk as Riddle seated himself between fellow, newly sorted first years Edgar Nott and Jürgen Drachenzahm.


	3. Snakes and Bedposts

"The password will change every second Friday at eight o'clock in the evening - the new ones will appear on the board," said Cassian Rookwood, sixth year Prefect.

The Slytherin common room reminded Edgar Nott of home. He wondered if his father, Cantankerous Nott, a Slytherin graduate of a decade before, had decorated their family's new Branscombe manor in its style.

A fireplace blazed with a rich, green flame a few hues darker than floo. It was adorned by a large mantelpiece of three large, marble serpents, their tongues protruding out of their open mouths, with fangs displayed, ready to strike. An embellished wooden board hovered above the mantelpiece, suspended by a some sort of advanced hovering charm. Parchment in varying shades of withering yellow were stuck to the board. Some were what looked like lists of rules, while others were sketches of assorted quality.

"See to it that you memorise your timetables, lest you misplace them. Breakfast is served from 6:30 to 8:30. Be there by 7:45, as the elves will not prepare new servings after that. A Slytherin does not eat leftovers." Rookwood gravely intoned. A few chortles were elicited among the first years.

Two other fireplaces, with smaller but likewise imposing serpentine mantlepieces, were at opposing sides of the main hall, perpendicular to the main fireplace. Large, black leather couches formed arches around each of the fireplaces. The handful of older students who hadn't yet retired to their dorms were comfortably postured on the couches; it was clear to Edgar that, to them, the Slytherin common room was as good as a second home.

The innermost walls were large, curved panes, enabling a view of the seaweed-green expanse of the black lake. Mahogany desks, imposing armchairs and bookshelves littered the rest of the space.

"As for Quidditch tryouts, they will be held next Thursday afternoon, at 5 pm, sharp. I suppose it ought to go without saying, but as first-years, there is almost no chance that you will make the team. No first-years have played for any Hogwarts team in over two decades. Actually, let me get to the point -  _Captain_   _Bassenthwaite_  has asked me to tell you to not bother trying out at all, as you'd be wasting his time."

A few indignant whispers broke out at this statement. Edgar caught onto the friendliness behind the playful distaste with which Rookwood intoned Bassenthwaite's name. He imagined himself one day, similarly, as prefect, referring to one of his Quidditch-brainsick friends in such a manner.

"Quiet! There is one more point I need to make clear, and this will be of utmost importance." Rookwood paused, his hazel eyes moving through the crowd, daring anyone to break the silence he had just engendered.

"Greatness does not come without a cost. Our house's devotion to the noblest ideals of Wizardkind causes great upset on the part of the other houses. While a Gryffindor and a Ravenclaw might bicker over a library book, an adulterous girlfriend, or whatever, anyone from any of the other three houses will assume that the stranger from Slytherin is an enemy, without reason. We are alone, and to stand strong, we  _must_  stand together."

Rookwood paused again, his eyes, once again, darted piercingly from face to face in the crowd of first years. A recoiling girl's shoulder collided with Edgar's. He thought Rookwood was being a bit too dramatic, but he supposed that it was fair, since the spectacle clearly produced its desired effect.

"Thus, whatever disputes you may have with one another, you will keep them to the common room. Outside of the dungeons, for all that some numbskull in Gryffindor or book-charming spod in Ravenclaw knows, we are a single, tightly bound unit. That is all."

Finishing his speech, Rookwood glanced at the boys in the group, his eyes darting, again, from one to another. They were fixed on Tom Riddle for more than a few seconds, before quickly making a round between the first year boys, Edgar included. The implicit message was clear -  _yes, Riddle is a mudblood, but you will not sweep the mud when outside of the common room._

Edgar felt ambivalent towards Tom Riddle; while he had all the outward markings of a mudblood, Edgar could swear that he saw Riddle bidding a dignified-looking older Slytherin goodbye on the carriage, as they disembarked for the boats at Hogsmeade station. Edgar remembered the gesture not only being reciprocated, but also a glint of respect in the elder Slytherin's eyes.

As soon as all six boys were in their dorm, which was comprised of two rows of green-draped four poster beds beside elegantly carved extendable hawthorne wardrobes, Iban Jugson, Jürgen Drachenzahm and Antoine Rosier exchanged quick glances; they were communicating, and it was clear that they were all acquainted with one another from before Hogwarts.

In a flash, Jugson, Drachenzahm and Rosier drew their wands, and shouted three different spells in such synchrony that Edgar failed to make out a single one of them. Alphard Black was startled and drew his wand, although it was pointed at no one in particular. Edgar too, drew his wand, but he knew that his small arsenal of pre-Hogwarts spells was insufficient for the present situation.

"Uurgh!" Tom Riddle's body was bound by conjured ropes on the floor; he was writhing, like an enlarged worm, and his expression was one of absolute fury.

Drachenzahm, ringleader apparent of the group, was the first to step forward, a smug smirk on his face. Jugson's large frame trailed his left foot, while Rosier, after flippantly brushing back his long, curly brown hair with a stroke of his wand, followed on the right.

"Look here, lads... A mudblood rat, caught up in a den of snakes." Drachenzahm intoned, in a mocking, dulcet voice. Jugson chortled, while Rosier's aloof expression grimaced into a sneer.

Edgar glanced at Riddle. The ferocious scowl which he wore just a moment ago was gone, replaced by an expression of absolute impassivity. He then glanced at Black, hoping that he would somehow be able to silently communicate as the Jugson-Drachenzahm-Rosier trio had;  _what do we do?_

However, Black was no longer where he had been a moment ago. Now, he was besides Rosier, his wand uncomfortably pointing at Riddle. Although Black's face didn't look particularly enthusiastic, his allegiance was clear.

"Should've gone to the hive of badgers." Jugson added.

"Badgers livel in holes, not hives, idiot. Although, yes. Badgers and rats are filth alike." Drachenzahm retaliated.

"Same thing, really." Jugson replied, flatly.

Drachenzahm raised his wand again, the smirk on his face blooming into a full-fledged sneer. However, right before he could unleash whatever spell he had in mind, Riddle's fingers contracted, and Drachenzahm was thrown against the post of a bed.

While the rest of his body was bound, and as he was placed under a silencing charm, Riddle's hand wandlessly slammed Drachenzahm against a bedpost. Edgar stifled a gasp.

Rosier and Jugson weren't sure what to do. Their wands, which were levelled against Riddle's bound body, quivered, as they were held in trembling hands.

"Stupid mudbloods! Curse your filthy accidental magic - you'll pay -"

" _Locomotor Wobbly!_ " Edgar shouted. Although Edgar had no idea how to undo the full-body bind, he knew that Riddle's magic was not accidental; he knew where to stand in this little debacle.

As Drachenzahm fell to the floor, Edgar's convictions faltered. Rosier and Jugson weren't nearly afraid of his Jelly-Legs curse as they were of Riddle's suspected wandless magic.

" _Furnunculus!"_ Rosier barked. Edgar ducked.

" _Mimble Wimble!"_ Jugson shot, and missed.

" _Calvorio_!" Alphard Black's allegiances, once again, shifted - Jugson's hair was rapidly falling off his head. Black grinned in pride, and Edgar nodded at him.

" _Aguamenti!"_ Drachenzahm, who was now slumped on the floor, sprayed a small jet of water at Black. Rosier gave a confused look at Drachenzahm, his expression inquiring as to why the latter chose to conjure  _water_ in a fight out of everything.

A few jinxes, hexes and erratic conjurations of water later, the first year Slytherin dormitory resulted in six small boys slumped over one another, with fallen hair everywhere, boils, conjured slugs, and an incessant stream of gibberish; several tongue-tie jinxes had succeeded in reaching their targets. There was one distinctive voice, and it was Alphard Black's.

Black pushed Drachenzahm off his back and stood up. He angrily brushed a slug off his flushed cheek.

"Well, since I'm the only one who can  _talk_ , I will go fetch someone to clean this  _mess_ up."

A minute or two had passed. Edgar sat on his bed, wondering if he should write about this incident to his father. Drachenzahm and Jugson managed to stand up, but Black's  _petrificus totalus_ had thrown Rosier stiffly to the floor.

Although they couldn't talk, they were not enacting physical violence against Riddle. Whether this was due to their finding of physical, effectively Muggle, violence, repelling or whether they simply tired, or even remorseful, Edgar could not tell.

The door opened to a nervous looking Black, and a tall, pretty, but irritated looking brunette witch who Edgar recognised as fifth year prefect, Desdemona Greengrass. Black re-entered the dorm, and Greengrass tried to follow him; but as soon as her foot touched the floor of the first years boys' dormitory, she recoiled in pain.

"Damned wards!" She cried out.

Taking out her wand and muttering some quick incantations, a lattice of thin, translucent blue lines materialised at the entry where the door would have occupied if closed. Some of the lines seemed to align with Greengrass's facial features. A moment later, the lines emitted a series of pleasant bell-like sounds, and disappeared. Greengrass crossed the entry, with a weary expression and a furrowed brow. She aggressively gestured with her wand. Edgar heard one of the boys gulp.

" _Finite Incantatem. Finite Incantatem. Finite Incantatem! Finite Incantatem!_ " Each incantation was inflected a little quicker and shriller than the last.

As their voices returned and various hexes were neutralised, the boys all uncomfortably reshifted. Tom, although impassive, had his dark eyes fixed on Drachenzahm's neck. Rosier offhandedly charmed his hair to flutter back. One of Jugson's boils unceremoniously popped, its pus spraying over a bedpost.

"Madam Green -" came Rosier's dulcet voice.

" _Silencio!_ " Greengrass cast with an exaggeratedly aggressive motion, causing Rosier's falsely remorseful expression to quickly contort into a scowl and back.

"Never - not once in my five years at Hogwarts have I seen such a Medea-cursed mess on the _first day_  of term!"

Greengrass sighed deeply, and dramatically fluttered her hands, as if doing so would calm her down. Edgar thought that she was awfully excitable for a Slytherin, let alone a Slytherin prefect.

"Indeed, I know you have a mu-muggleborn among you, but you heard what Cassy said! We look out for our own, muggleborn or not. If you can't even live among each other peacefully, how do you expect to stand up for each other? Hmm?"

Jugson looked fearful; Rosier's expression of indignation was poorly suppressed his attempt at a poker face. Drachenzahm was avoiding making eye contact with anyone, as Riddle's piercing black eyes remained unmoving on his neck. Black was tugging at Greengrass' arm sleeve, as though she were his mother, and he was looking for protection from retaliation for his dobbing on his dormmates.

"Now. While you needn't be friends with… Ripple-"

"Riddle." Riddle corrected, giving Greengrass an odd smile.

"Riddle. Hem. He is still one of us, and, as such, you will all look out for one another against meddlers from other houses. Understood?"

"Yes." Everyone, apart from Rosier, who just curtly nodded, quietly and synchronously said.

"Good. Now, if I hear one more time about issues from you firsties, believe me - I  _will_ deduct points, and all the older Slytherins will know the tale and the crooks involved in it. Tut-tut. Understood?" Greengrass's eyes wandered from boy to boy. Edgar thought the implication was that, even if there was an issue, it should, next time, be internally addressed among the six of them, without the attention of a prefect.

"Yes."

"Good. Now go to sleep - you don't want to be all weary for your classes tomorrow.  _Finite Incantatem._ "

With a dramatic spin of the heel, Greengrass spun around, departed, and slammed the door.

"You haven't seen the end of this, mudblood." Drachenzahm spat, not even looking at Riddle.

"Jürgen, maybe -" Jugson began.

"Aaargh!" Drachenzahm was slammed against a bedpost again.

"No, this is just the beginning." Riddle menacingly intoned, his right hand with his wand pointed against Rosier, who likewise had his wand aimed at Riddle, but was trembling a great deal. His left hand was outstretched, pointed at Drachenzahm; it had clearly propelled him against the bedpost. Jugson raised his hands as if to surrender.


	4. An Important Chap

"Morning, Lid."

Lydia Cotterill decided that particular nickname was more irritating than it was endearing. Back when she was at her maternal grandparents' home, Spritedust Tower, where it had only been Jacen and herself, her feelings towards the nickname were undecided - but now, they were at the table of Slytherin house in the Hogwarts' great hall, under the observing eyes of no more than a dozen, astute early-wakers.

"Sod off,  _Jay-Jay_."

The intended effect was not produced; Jacen Spritedust merely let out a heartfelt laugh, before seating himself besides her.

"Aunt Lyneue is going to be rather glad that you're with us. She was quite worried you'd be in Ravenclaw, y'know, with all those potions books in your bedroom and all. Anyway - I've already written her."

"Gee, thanks." Although her tone was acerbic, Lydia was secretly glad Jace had done her the courtesy; she wanted her mother to know the news of her placement in Slytherin, but she didn't want to initiate the correspondence herself. If she did, her mother would continue to think of her as a little girl, in constant need of validation.

"So, how was your first night?" Jace's tone was suddenly sober. A sense of affection and the warm feeling of being protected rushed over Lydia, but she quickly dismissed it, as it was a childish feeling. It was time to become a real witch now; she was, after all, in Slytherin.

She looked around, before responding.

"Fine. Margue Crabbe seems dumb. Lucretia Black didn't think a Cotterill was worth her attention. Walburga… Lucretia's sister? Twin? Cousin? I don't know. She was alright. Anastasia Dolohova is a neat freak."

The answered seemed to suffice Jacen, who then began to voraciously consume a sandwich that was comprised of a single slice of folded toast, and several rashers of bacon. Lydia hadn't touched her cutlery; she would wait until one of her dormmates arrived before eating.

"Not just a Cotterill. You're a Spritedust too, y'know." If anyone else talked while they chewed, Lydia would have found it disgusting. Ed's coarse manners, however, were familiar, and comforting.

"Don't think the name Spritedust nor Cotterill means anything to a black." Lydia said.

She remembered the fervent applause last night her house had given to Lucretia and Walburga Black. The applause Lydia received didn't compare with it.

"Oh, you reckon? Euphemia Black, fourth year - a round waist with a darling smile. Snogged her in one of 'ol Sluggy's extendable cupboards on the second floor, last May." The smugness was not lost through Jacen's chewing. "Anyway, I wanted to tell you something. The Riddle bloke with your lot? He's a genius."

"The mudblood? What -" Lydia recalled ' _Riddle, Thomas_ ' at the sorting - he was one of the shortest and thinnest boys in their entire year. She wondered how muggles fed their children. The hat would've consumed his face, had Professor Merrythought not taken it off a second after it was placed on his small head. His applause was by far the least enthusiastic of all the Slytherin first years.

"Hold it, Lid. Mulce reckons he's not really a mudblood. He sat with us on the train. Conjured a bird to attack Avery, and performed  _wandless_  magic. You heard it right, Lid.  _Wandless._  Boy's got the grace of Meriln."

"Riddle. Riddle sat with you on the train?" Lydia tried to picture the scrawny figure of Tom Riddle besides the elegant form of Langston Mulciber. It didn't work.

"Yeah. The small lad was already there with Mulce when Veronica, Dru and I came. He must have impressed Mulce quite a bit, come to think of it."

"Mulce thinks he's not a mudblood? But -" Lydia repeated, incredulous.

She had always respected Langston Mulciber- he'd visited Spritedust tower during school term breaks on a few occasions. Once, he'd bought her a large box of Honeydukes Finest. While he levitated it easily into her bedroom, she could not lift it up with both her hands. Although she'd finished it over a year ago, she still kept the box beneath her bed, as memorabilia. But Riddle was definitely a mudblood surname, and half-blood blood-traitor spawns never made it to Slytherin.

"Like I said, the lad's ridiculously powerful. He didn't know his parents; he grew up at some muggle place for kids without 'em. A strange culture, isn't it? Perhaps they were fighting for Grindelwald in Britain, and he got stuck with the muggles after they died."

Jace paused to flush down some pumpkin juice. He cleared his throat before continuing.

"Perhaps the muggles didn't know his real name and just gave him one of their own. Anyhow, I'm sure the good 'ol sorting hat knows not to put muds in our house."

Lydia considered this. Regardless of the conspiracies revolving around Riddle's heritage, if both Mulce and Jace Spritedust respected someone, there would be a good reason for it.

"Well, good to see you all settled in and well. I'll go catch up with Mulce and the chaps. Be nice to Tom, you hear? He'll probably be some an important chap some day."

"Bye, Jace."

A few minutes later, Anastasia Dolohova occupied the spot that Jacen Spritedust had vacated. She looked prettier than she was the previous night; a beautifying potion made her pristine skin subtly glisten, and a curling charm added a nice flair to her long, smooth, black hair. Lydia watched as she neatly spread greenberry purée over a piece of toast, before cutting it into four even squares, eating one at a time, pausing after each bite to dust any crumbs that had fallen onto her robe.

Riddle was the first boy to arrive. Short, thin and pale, he looked like a little doll with black hair that was more neatly combed than most the seven year prefects. Sitting directly across Lydia, he inclined his head in acknowledgment. Lydia enthusiastically greeted him back with a smile; he seemed surprised by this. Lydia supposed that his dormmates had likely not given him much of a warm welcome.

Alphard Black arrived together with Lucretia. The two bore a disconcerting resemblance; both had high cheekbones; piercing, light-gray eyes; aquiline noses, and sharp jaws. However, whereas Lucretia's hair was long, unnaturally smooth and a luminescent shade of blonde, Alphard's hair was tuft of curly black. Lucretia sat on the other side of Anastasia, and Alphard sat beside Riddle.

"Morning, Tom. I didn't see you leave the dorm." Alphard intoned slowly, as though he were unsure of whether or not he was on a first-name basis with Riddle.

Lydia wondered what happened the previous night, to warrant a  _Black_  acting deferential towards a boy of unconfirmed, possibly muggle, heritage.

"I suppose my footsteps were drowned out by  _Jugson's_  snoring." Riddle glanced at Alphard, giving him a small, gentle smile, which intrusively reminded Lydia of her own mother's. Alphard uncomfortably reciprocated it.

Lydia did not miss the distaste with which Riddle inflected Jugson's name. The second day of first year, and in-house rivalries were already burgeoning in the boys' dorm. Boys were stupid.

The rest of the Slytherin first years arrived, and it seemed that they were the most punctual of the first years out of the four houses. Rookwood's proclamation that ' _a Slytherin does not eat leftovers_ ' seemed to actually have imprinted a sense of house pride and obligation.

The animosity within the Slytherin first years' male cohort presented itself on the setting arrangement at the table; Riddle's doll-like figure was flanked by two taller figures; Alphard Black, and a brown-haired boy Lydia remembered as Edgar Nott, who were like two beaters protecting their team's prize seeker. The other boys- Jugson, Drachenzahm and Rosier, were seated on Lydia's side, a few seats to the left of Lucretia Black, keeping their distance from the other trio.

"What's all this about, Black?" Asked a wiry, sharp-nosed second year-boy.

"What's  _what_ about?" Alphard replied.

"Quit chugging the cockatrice piss, Black. What happened between the three of you and the other lot?" Said the second-year boy.

Lydia looked at Tom to see his reaction, but saw that he was calmly buttering his croissant, ignoring the conflict besides him, wilfully or not. His plate seemed to contain an awful amount of food for such a small boy.

"Ranulphus, mate, leave the poor kid alone." Another second year boy, besides the inquirer who Lydia now recognised as Ranulphus Lestrange, interjected, while chewing.

"Sod off, Wilkes. Was just curious; I don't really care." Lestrange paused to cast a weak fire conjuring charm on his toast, charring it ash-gray. Lydia scrunched her nose as Lestrange took a large bite from his burnt toast. "So, what's going on, Black?"

"Fine. I'll tell you later." Alphard's face turned to Lestrange, with a muted pleading expression, as though to silently communicate that whatever he had to say, if spoken, would incur drama or embarrassment.

"Not a chance. I propose you say it here and now." A predatory smile twisted onto Lestrange's face.

"Look, we're in the great hall-" Alphard began, his voice rushed.

"Well spotted." Lestrange replied loudly, drawing the attention of a few other younger Slytherins.

" _Slytherin unity_  and all. I will  _tell you later._ " This time, Alphard's voice was more composed. He turned his face back to breakfast.

"Alright, go on then, protect your little mudblood. A Slytherin value indeed!" Lestrange replied, mockingly. Lydia had expected him to snarl at Alphard's defiance, but his voice was calm, with a hint of amusement.

"Oh, but Radolfus, you haven't even seen what he could do." This time, it was Edgar Nott who replied. His voice was more tempered and controlled than Black's.

"Ranulphus." Lestrange corrected. "So? What can he do? Wipe mud on my robe?"

"Well, once you find out, I imagine you'll gather that he's no mudblood." A new, deeper, and familiar voice intoned. Lydia smiled at the arrival of Langston Mulciber.

"Mulciber? You too? Will someone let me in on what's so amazing about the mudblood?" This time, Lestrange did snarl; he felt threatened by Mulce. Lydia felt proud of her childhood friend.

"Ranulphus, was it? Find me in the common room at lunch, and I'll show you." This time, Riddle finally spoke. There was no fear, nor uncertainty, in his voice.

His face, bar a slightly raised right eyebrow, was perfectly impassive. For some reason, the high pitch of his voice surprised Lydia; she had to remind herself that Riddle, like herself, was a mere first-year.

The junior first-to-third year end of the Slytherin table was completely quiet now. All the eyes were on Lestrange, waiting for his answer to Riddle's challenge. Lydia was almost sorry for him. A few more seconds passed, the only noise being that of Iban Jugson's unceremonious chewing.

"Well, gee. S'pose Tom must've done something real impressive for you chaps to act like this. Know what, Riddle? I don't say it often, least of all to firsties, but I'm sorry. Are we good?" Lestrange genuinely looked remorseful.

Lydia was surprised by how quickly Riddle had gone from 'mudblood' to 'Tom' for Lestrange. She had almost expected Lestrange to accept the challenge and gloat, but remembered that, despite his gregarious demeanour, Lestrange was still a Slytherin.

"I forgive you." Riddle awkwardly extended his arm across Alphard to touch Lestrange's shoulder, smiling, head diagonally angled. Lestrange recoiled slightly, but there was no sign of resentment on his face, only a deferential smirk, as if they were conspirators in the same plot.

* * *

"Welcome, everyone! Welcome to your first potions lesson." Professor Slughorn raised him arms dramatically, opening them as though he were awaiting a hug from a long-lost relative. The bold spot on his gingery-blonde hair reminded Lydia of her father.

"Now, many of you probably have some… assumptions about the art of potions, so let me tell you now, not to throw a quaffle into my own hoop, but as a veteran potioneer, that this discipline of magic is perhaps the most underrated by your everyday wizard. And witch, of course. To the laywizard, potions amounts to nothing more than healing, and cosmetics, for the witches. But did you know that, out of the twenty-five patents the Unspeakables invented at the Department of Mysteries in the past decade, eleven were potions? Oh, and for those whose parents are aurors… oh, Mr Mockridge." Slughorn winked at a tall Gryffindor boy with messy, light brown hair.

"Oh yes, your father might've told you. What was it now? Ah. The potion they call the Chronoevelixia? One drop of it allows the drinker to slow or hasten their perception of time a few magnitudes. Although it only works for water signs with airborne patronuses, you could see how it would be a total gamechanger. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, those who..."

Lydia subconsciously tuned out her head of house's stream-of-consciousness, and took the opportunity to look about the classroom. She hoped that potions would be one of her better subjects, to make her father proud. Ellis Cotterill had been a potioneer many years prior to Lydia's birth, before selling the Cotterill family's generationally inherited apothecary, opting instead to climb the bureaucratic dragonscales of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

She noticed that the six Slytherin boys were standing closely together- Rookwood's caution about presenting a facade of unity had not fallen on blunt ears. Upon further examination, however, she could see that Black and Nott were closely surrounding Riddle, with a small lapse of space between the three of them and Rosier and Jugson, who flanked Drachenzahm. She doubted that the Gryffindors in the room would notice that nuance, however.

"While most first year potions could be brewed individually, advanced potioneers often work in pairs or teams due to the processional nature of the art. Thus, even for something so simple as a cure for boils, you will be working in pairs simply to practice the skill of cooperation and communication. Oh, Miss Cotterill- a pleasure." Slughorn beamed at Lydia; Lydia returned the smile.

"I'd met your father in Buenos Aires in what was it, '24, '25? His seisometric potions are often used as components by the Unspeakables, you know. Now, everyone, you can find the instructions in page 16 of your textbooks; ingredients will be in the cupboards to my left. Let's go!"

Without a second thought, Lydia made a beeline to Riddle.  _Be nice to Tom. He'll probably be some an important chap some day._ Sometimes it was difficult to believe that Jacen Spritedust, who was impish, lousy, and seemingly without a care in the world, was a Slytherin. But she heard her cousin well; she was to be nice to Riddle  _not_ because he'd make a good friend per se, or because he was a poor, smart boy who needed a boost, but because he'd be an  _important chap_  some day.

"Hey,  _Tom_. Partners?" Lydia beamed a smile at him. She knew that she was prettier this way; while many witches had teeth which had been cured by straightening hexes and bleaching charms, her small, oyster-white set of teeth were au naturel, and startling in that manner.

Nott looked slightly irritated by her sudden intrusion into their conversation, but thankfully, did not raise any objections. Riddle's small figure raised an eyebrow at her; Lydia realised that she was nearly a head taller than him.

"Sure,  _Lydia_. Edgar, I suppose you'll go with Alphard." Riddle replied, calmly. The two other boys had no difficulty accepting his command, and it seemed that Riddle's commanding of them also came naturally to him. Lydia amusedly wondered if Riddle had commanded the muggles at the muggle-house he grew up in.

"Do you mind gathering the ingredients?" Riddle asked, with a smile which Lydia found herself unable to refuse. Wordlessly, she departed for the supplies cabinet.

Lydia was the first to completely retrieve her ingredients; she could identify all the ingredients without reference to her textbook.

"I will prepare the ingredients; you will stir the potion." Without waiting for her response, Riddle grabbed the snake fangs and added them into the mortar, promptly grinding them.

As the lesson progressed, Lydia found herself amazed at the incompetence of her Gryffindor classmates. A pair of girls she recognised Vera Ballington and Alice Midgen were fretting over their cauldron, which was overflowing with a thick, viscous red substance. A pudgy, short blonde boy, who was a little taller than Tom, that Lydia remembered as William Otterburn from the sorting ceremony, and his partner, a thin boy with long, dishevelled brown hair who was either Aldyn Bellchant or Eusebius Bones, were quarrelling over whose responsibility it had been to count the amount of stir rotations.

Septimus Weasley, a freckled, red-haired boy, seemed entertained by the fact his potion was emitting  _green_ smoke, when it was supposed to be pink, or at least, red. His partner, Ignatius Prewett, also a ginger, seemed similarly content to watch disaster literally brew.

The only Slytherins whose budding cauldron had any defects were Iban Jugson and Margue Crabbe's- it was  _billowing_ with ordinary, gray smoke. Lydia glanced back at the pair of ginger Gryffindor boys, who were tittering at the sight, and then at Slughorn, who seemed clueless. She wondered if she should tell on former, or let Crabbe and Jugson learn their lesson of ensuring their brewing wasn't interfered with.

Time was up. Slughorn began to pace around the workstations, paying each pair a visit, beginning with the Gryffindors. He looked quite dismayed at all of them, with the exception of Gaius McLaggen and Olivier Dechamps, a French emigre, whose cauldron was producing a faint pink smoke.

Crabbe and Jugson's potion had exploded, and the latter was covered with boils. The sight amused Riddle- Lydia laughed along with him.

"Well, I suppose whoever's potion is the most promising will be put to good use, eh?" Slughorn's attempt at thawing Jugson's anger did not work.

Lucretia and Walburga's potion produced a yellow smoke which was tinged with pink.

Septimus Weasley whispered something to Prewett, which suspiciously sounded like ' _boiling piss'_. Lucretia glared at him.

"Nat, I think she likes me." Prewett seemed to agree with Weasley's assessment.

Anastasia Dolohova proudly informed Slughorn that she had worked alone, in defiance of his instructions; her potion's pink smoke seemed more vivid than that of McLaggen & Dechamps'.

"Now now, Miss Dolohova, I would've awarded you points, had you worked with a fellow classmate. Remember, cooperation and communication."

"But, there is an odd number of us in this class." Dolohova complained. She had a light accent, which Lydia thought was cute.

"You'll be working with the Black cousins next time, then." So they were cousins.

Drachenzahm and Rosier's potion emitted a smoke which was slightly weaker than Dolohova's.

"Very well done, lads. Five points to Slytherin!" They were the first first year Slytherins to be awarded points.

As Slughorn finally came around to Riddle and Lydia's potion, his face beamed. It was clear that their potion had exceeded any first-year expectations. Riddle coyly smiled, as he saw Slughorn's felicitous expression.

"Tom, m'boy! And you too, Lydia. Very well done, if I may say so. As close to perfect as a simple boil cure can be; I can already see that you two have a bright future ahead of you, at least in potions. Five points to Slytherin." Lydia scowled at her being addressed in the dismissive manner of ' _and you too, Lydia._ ' She turned to Tom, and saw that he, too, was scowling. Was he upset on her behalf? That'd be cute.

"Why the frown, Tom?"

"Our potion was clearly better than  _Drachenzahm's._ Yet, we've been awarded the same amount of points that he was."

Lydia did not miss the strong distaste with which Riddle inflected Drachenzahm's name.

* * *

Lydia was seated besides Tom at transfiguration. While he smiled with his lips and scowled with his eyes at professor Dumbledore, Lydia noticed that his right leg was gently brushed against her left one. Her heart-rate elevated. She knew that he felt the contact, and hadn't shied away from it.

"There are five variables which restrict the possibilities of transfiguration. Two of them are known as original principles; bodyweight and viciousness, another two as ulterior principles, the fifth one unknown. Does anyone know the names of the ulterior principles, and, the ways in which they affect transfiguration?

Three hands raised into the air; Riddle's, a Ravenclaw named Millicent Bagnold, and Anastasia Dolohova's, in that order. Dumbledore selected the Ravenclaw.

"Wand power, and concentration, sir. With wand power, there are two things to consider. The wand's core, and the age of the wand. Certain wand cores are better for certain types of transfiguration. I'm not sure myself, but I think phoenix feathers are better for transfiguring things into flying objects or birds. As a wand ages and its magical core grows older, its strength is increased. Umm, this allows the caster to change the original principles more, I think. With concentration, I'm not sure. You have to think hard, I guess."

"Very good, Miss Bagnold. Ten points to Ravenclaw. However, there is one point I would like to clarify for you; whereas older, more expended magical cores indeed channel their caster's magical potentiality to a greater extent, it does not necessarily mean they become 'stronger'. Rather, one could say that they simply become more  _mature._  The increase of magical strength, of tapping into raw, untapped magical energy comes at the cost of control and finesse. I'm sure some in this classroom can think of a grandparent who can conjure an impressive tornado charm, while no longer being able to scourgify a stain on their robes without covering it in soap, or levitate firewood into a hearth without incurring a potentially unstable fire."

Dumbledore's exampling of an unstable grandparent engendered a mixed response; some of the the students giggled, whereas others looked sombre, the fact hitting uncomfortably close to home. Riddle's eyes were glaring daggers.

"Remember, when any particular faculty of your being increases in power, another part is compromised; such is the nature of the equilibrium of magical cores. Hence the old adage of the dark wizard selling his soul to become more powerful."

A few Ravenclaws nodded in agreement with this, including Millicent Bagnold, who seemed to have an absurdly strong conviction against dark magic for a first year, judging by the comical rapidity of her nodding head. A few of Lydia's fellow Slytherins suppressed sneers. Riddle, however, was not sneering; his eyes were glistening with an unmistakable, intensive enthusiasm. Lydia thought he looked slightly mad.

"Now, perhaps it is wise that I stop bothering you with the theoretical intricacies of the subject. Practice, after all, is the best teacher of magic."

Lydia wondered if it was possible for the auburn-haired man to teach without his irritating habit of sermonising.

Dumbledore withdrew his wand, and wandlessly levitated a stack of matchsticks from his desk to distribute themselves among the students.

"Try and transfigure these matches into needles. It will help if you try and imagine the different properties of the needle simultaneously, such as imagining the sharpness of the needle's tip at once with the metallic feeling of its body."

Lydia heeded the instructions, but found it difficult to simultaneously concentrate on both sensations. Her first few tries produced nothing; on her sixth or seventh, her match turned silver, but its red tip still remained. Anastasia Dolohova had done the opposite; she had a needle in all its sharpness, but it was still wooden, like a match. Looking around, it seemed that most of the class had achieved less than she did.

Lucretia Black gave up on trying to transfigure her match into a needle, and instead transfigured it into a rose- and was awarded ten points for  _creativity_ (was Dumbledore trying to encourage petty insolence?). Riddle, however, had once again, exceeded all expectations; hovering over his hand was an impossibly thin needle. Seeing Lydia's astounded expression, which was at both his utter success and wandless magic, he tilted his head and smiled at her.

"Lydia, come." Tom gestured with a slow motion of his forearm.

"Show me your hand." Tom's voice was high-pitched, but firm, and gentle.

Lydia obliged, revealing her palm. With a small gesture of his fingers, Tom's needle levitated towards Lydia's hand, its sharp end angling directly at the centre of her palm. With another gesture of his fingers, Lydia felt a small, but sharp burning feeling in her palm. A small stream of blood gushed out of the wound from the needle.

"What the hell,  _Riddle_!" Lydia said a little too loudly. Edgar Nott and Alphard Black looked her direction.

"Quiet. Don't want Dumbledore to hear or see; cover your hand." Riddle hissed. However, his eyes were gleaming with pride, clearly from the successful testing of his needle's sharpness.

"I was being nice to you and you do  _this_? Bloody hell, what is  _wrong_ with you!" Lydia whispered, glaring. The pain in her hand had subsided, but it was feeling slightly numb. Her indignation and upset far outweighed her physical pain. She wanted to run to Jacen and hug him, and tell him that his precious little  _important chap_ had hurt her. But she couldn't do that; she was a Slytherin witch now, no longer at home.

"I did it to you  _because_ you were being nice. Consider it a gesture of friendship." Riddle's voice was halfway menacing, halfway playful. Nott sniggered, whereas Black looked somewhat disapproving.

"Tom, Dumbledore's coming." Black said.

"Remember to cover your hand." With that, Riddle spun around and faced Dumbledore.

"Very impressive work, Mister Riddle. Ten points to Slytherin."

"Thank you, sir." Riddle replied, quietly.

Passing Riddle, Dumbledore stopped at Lydia, whose right hand was awkwardly pressed against her desk. She held up her incomplete match for Dumbledore to see, with her left hand.

"It's a good start, Miss Cotterill. Is something wrong with your hand?" Riddle turned around, and glared at her. Edgar Nott looked at her sympathetically, over Riddle's shoulder. She gulped. She felt her heart pound against her chest, and then at her throat. Her first day of school wasn't supposed to be like this. She had been so excited.

"U-u-umm. It's-it's fine, sir. Really, it's... " Lydia wanted to chide herself for losing her composure, but the heartbeat in her throat would not allow it.

"Calm down, Miss Cotterill. Take a deep breath, and let me examine your hand." Lydia took a deep breath, and looked away from the professor, in shame. She felt Dumbledore's warm, firm hand around her right forearm. It reminded her of her father.

Hesitantly turning her face to see what would ensue from Dumbledore's inspection, she felt a lightness liberate her body and placate her tense muscles, as she saw her palm, a clean and continuous patch of white. Accidental magic had saved her, and by extension, Tom. She sighed in relief.

* * *

At lunch, Lydia sat between Anastasia Dolohova and Lucretia Black. Black was engaged in conversation with a sister, or a female cousin. She tried to not stare at Riddle, who was somehow keeping the rapt attention of Nott, Alphard Black, Lestrange, Mulce, Ed, and a fourth year who she did not recognise. It looked like Antoine Rosier was part of his crowd now, too.

Lydia had heaped a few spoonfuls of boiled green peas and a sausage onto her plate. The food and its aroma was utterly unappealing. Watching Dolohova eat, however, was. The girl's plate was invisibly compartmentalised into four sections, not on the basis of nutritional qualities, but on that of colour. All the food was cut roughly into half inch by half inch squares, and Dolohova ate her rations in a counterclockwise rotation. The motions of her cutlery and chewing were soothingly repetitive.

"Lydia, why you are looking at me?" Her accent seemed thicker than it was during potions.

"The way you eat. It's… interesting?"

"Interesting?" Anastasia looked back at Lydia, her expression like that of someone who might've just seen a baby house elf ride a Comet 150.

* * *

Lydia arrived to her afternoon charms class early, hoping to avoid Tom. She counted on Anastasia's compulsion for neatness to drive her to come early and seat herself besides Lydia, but as the minutes started passing, her panic grew at Ana was nowhere to be seen, and even Margue Crabbe had arrived.

With three minutes remaining until the commencement of the lesson, Tom Riddle's small, neat figure entered the room, flanked by the three taller figures of Edgar Nott, Alphard Black and Antoine Rosier, as though they were his personal guards. Nott and Black settled on one desk; Riddle gestured for Rosier to move away from him and sit elsewhere. Lydia realised the implication, and braced herself.

Riddle sat down next to her. Although her face was turned away from his direction, she viscerally knew it was him. Simultaneous feelings of dread, anger, guilt and an impulse to flee throbbed through her body.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder.

"Lydia, it's alright; I  _forgive_  you." Riddle intoned, sweetly. Lydia looked back, and found the small head on his short figure tilted, smiling.

The indignation took over the other motions. Forgive her for what? Getting stabbed by a needle, and almost breaking down in front of a professor in order to save Riddle's skin? She found an appeal in throwing a tantrum, thereby dragging Riddle's carefully-curated reputation through the dirt. Riddle's small hand was still on her shoulder. Now, Anastasia arrived, precisely 5 seconds before the proper commencement time of the class.

"Okay. I guess I  _forgive_ you, too."

She almost expected Riddle to be upset at her deigning to forgive him. Instead, his smile widened. Not just an  _important chap_ , but a magnanimous one too, apparently.

"Friends again?"

"Fine."

The charms professor, Statius Clearwater, arrived three minutes late. He was a tall, old, burly man, dressed in a nondescript gray robe. There was a large bald spot on his graying brown hair, and his beard was neatly combed. He looked like a combat-inclined version of Slughorn; one could have reasonably assumed that he was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

He demonstrated the levitation charm, and asked the rest of the class to try it themselves with the feathers provided on their desks.

"Lydia, I need you to do me a favour."

"What's it, Tom?"

"Raise your hand, and say, 'Tom just performed some really amazing magic'. When Clearwater asks me to demonstrate, I will be modest. But you will say that I should not be shy. Further, you'll insist I lift something heavier than a feather. Understood?" Riddle whispered slowly, in an aloof, almost bored, tone.

"You're kidding." Lydia knew that Thomas Riddle was a boy with a dash for the theatrical, but she could not believe that he would endorse such an act of brazen vanity. It veered on the kind of behaviour one would expect from a Gryffindor.

"No. Now raise your hand."

Lydia raised her hand.

"Miss… Cotterill? Is it?" Professor Clearwater's said, his voice gruff and deep.

"Yes sir. Sir, Riddle just performed some really amazing magic." Lydia did her best impression to feign surprise.

"Oh? And what magic would that be?" Clearwater seemed genuinely curious.

"It's nothing, sir. Really. Lydia,  _please._ " Riddle's voice had gone from aloof and bored, to shy and pleading within the matter of a few seconds.

"Don't be shy, Tom. Professor, you'll award him points if he performs magic is at a NEWT level, right?" Lydia asked sweetly.

"Of course, dear, but mister Riddle seems-"

"Tom, do it. I know you can." Lydia wondered if she'd get reprimanded for interrupting the teacher in such a manner.

Riddle sighed with a deceptive weariness. "Alright, alright." The whole class had stopped trying for to levitate their own feathers. Everyone was looking at Riddle.

Riddle 'reluctantly' placed his feather exactly a little more than his arm's reach.

"Tom, do it with something heavier than a feather. You can; I know it." Reflexively thinking, Lydia pushed her textbooks onto Riddle's side of the desk.

Riddle raised his right arm, his palm facing the ceiling. With a few graceful movements of his fingers, as though he were playing an invisible harp, both his own and Lydia's textbooks rose, spread into an even circle, and began to gracefully rotate in the air. Each of the books were themselves rotating, as thought they were little celestial bodies spinning around a star.

Although she found it difficult to approve of Riddle's vanity, she had to concede that he was a great, history-worthy wizard in the making.

"Amazing… what a miracle. A round of applause for Riddle, everybody. Fifty points to Slytherin."

The Slytherins enthusiastically clapped, with a cheer or two coming from Iban Jugson before Antoine Rosier poked him with his wand. The Gryffindors added to the chorus for the sake of politeness.


	5. Quidditch Complications

Everything was supposed to be alright, until the  _miracle mudblood_ came and ruined it all. Tom Riddle - the very name was difficult to think about without a scowl manifesting on Antoine Rosier's face.

For as long as Antoine could remember, he had looked forward to attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Having spent countless weekends with Iban and Jürgen at either of their parents' properties, he already knew that his Slytherin cohort would be established before the sorting hat even groped the edges of their little heads.

"Before I met your father in Wroclaw, I knew a boy called Renard Malfoy at Hogwarts. Oh, bless Merlin, do I remember our nights spent under the twinkling of the stars, from the view of the Quidditch stands." Lady Drachenzahm often regaled them with stories of Hogwarts, much to Jürgen's dismay.

It was known that Edgar Nott and Alphard Black would be in their year; although Antoine had only encountered the pair a handful of times at the Malfoys' yule balls, he knew they'd get along just fine. They'd played kids' Quidditch together; Black was a better chaser than Iban, but Nott was not as good a seeker as Jürgen. Both seemed somewhat withdrawn and shy, but not particularly stupid, nor too cunning for their own good.

One year prior to Hogwarts, Arcesilaus Rosier, Antoine's father, was killed in Coimbra, ambushed by  _British Aurors_. His father had barely managed to draw his wand before, the muggle-loving  _scum_  butchered him on the spot. He knew that they were too scared to face him in a fair duel. It was the first time Antoine had cried since he was perhaps six, or seven. Jürgen knew he didn't want to be consoled and pitied, like a girl. Instead, they'd tossed a quaffle back and forth as they glided at a melancholic lento over the grounds of the Rosier manor.

"My sweet Antoine, be patient in seeking your vengeance." Antoine's mother left the day she came, for the funeral.

Drachenzahm senior had, likewise, a few days after the incident, gone to the continent; Jürgen hasn't seen him since. Mr. Jugson was likewise absent far more often. Although death and the immanence of real-world events had become uncomfortably close, Antoine knew that with Hogwarts, all would be fine for him and his two friends.

On the first night at the castle, Jürgen, Iban and himself knew that the unforeseen state of affairs needed to be addressed quickly. They'd teach the mudblood his place, with Nott and Black there to see witness the assertion of their authority. They all knew what to do - each had their signature spells which they cast during playful duels they had with their parents' wands; Antoine's rope-conjuring charm, Jürgen's silencing charm, and Iban's trip jinx. It had gone well for a moment; it seemed that Black had even joined in on their belittling of Riddle, until the damned mudblood performed  _wandless_ magic.

Nott and Black immediately sided with the mudblood, and their fight was broken up by the pretty fifth year girls' prefect.

" _No, this is just the beginning._ " Antoine gulped as he remembered the mudblood's threat.

Thankfully, Antoine had quickly managed to ingratiate himself with Riddle. The mudblood, in all his coyness, was vain, and enjoyed flattery. As the days became weeks, however, Antoine found it increasingly difficult to maintain his act. He had anticipated that Riddle would eventually crack under the pressure of the maintaining the spectacle he was presenting to the snake house, but it had become clear that the moment Antoine was waiting for would never arrive.

They were supposed to go to Hogwarts, and become Slytherins in equal part; not cater to the whims of some small mudblood with tightly combed hair. Sometimes, Antoine traitorously wished he had gone to Beauxbatons, as his cousins Edouard and Irene had, before the war had consigned him to England.

Although Jürgen also managed to reconcile himself with Riddle, Antoine saw the way in which Jürgen's eyes flickered at Riddle when the latter wasn't looking at him.

However, Jürgen hadn't done anything, but Antoine knew that his refractory friend wouldn't let a slight go without passing, which was why he was immensely relieved when Jürgen had silently pressed a small piece of parchment in his hand, as he departed their library table, six minutes before the end of lunch.

Putting aside his herbology textbook, he unfolded the small piece of crumpled parchment.

 _Tonight, 7:45 pm in the abandoned classroom, with the doorknob charmed yellow on the sixth floor, West Wing. Make sure you're not followed_.

The script was not Jürgen's - whose writing, although cursive and pleasant looking, still suggested the uncertain hand of a fretting child. Every letter in this piece of parchment was without fault, and comfortable to look at. Antoine guessed that it must've been at least someone in third year who wrote it.

As dinner came, Antoine sat at a distance from Riddle - he wanted to leave early, and be able to leave unnoticed. Jürgen was nowhere to be seen. Besides Riddle on one side was the beefy figure of Druettus Avery, completely and enthusiastically occupied by his meal. On the other side was the small-headed, brunette girl Lydia Cotterill, who was, as usual, smiling obsequiously at a bored looking Riddle.

"Tom, how did you know to add honey water  _after_ the second bit of flobberworm mucus, rather than before, like the book says?" Cotterill's face was leaning awkwardly into Riddle's. Riddle's entire body seemed to be slightly shifted away from her, just so their face wouldn't be making physical contact.

"Intuition." A small smirk presented itself on Riddle's face, but he did not look back at Lydia.

"Oooh. Oh, oh, Tom! You  _need_  to try this soufflé, it's very good. Here, let me help you…"

On some days, Riddle reciprocated Cotterill's infatuation, at least to some extent. Unfortunately, for the stupid girl, today was not such a day. Antoine would have considered her pretty, if she wasn't so obsessed with becoming a blood traitor.

Without finishing his plate of fried potato slices and spliced beef, Antoine wordlessly left the Slytherin table.

The west wing of the sixth floor was  _cold_. Antoine flustered as he failed to recall the heating charm which Lady Drachenzähm had often cast during his winter stays at their Hartlepool manor. Instead, he cast a flourishing charm on his hair, tugged tightly on his robes and made his way.

The fourth classroom to the left of the staircase he embarked from had a glowing, yellow doorknob. Its sheen was sickly and dark, and there was no noise coming from the inside. Antoine gave a light knock.

"Come in." A gruff, unrecognisable voice said.

Antoine twisted the knob, and entered. Warmth flushed soothingly through his veins; evidently the occupants of the room knew how to cast warming charms. The classroom had two large, antique looking tables, and two older, derelict black cupboards which were open and empty on either side of the tables.

Jürgen was there, with four older Slytherin boys; Antoine recognised one of them as Langston Mulciber, who was resting against the wardrobe.

"Welcome,  _Rosier_. Do you know why we've you've been summoned here?" A tall, silver-blonde haired boy asked. His voice wasn't the one who answered the door. It was calmer, albeit higher pitched.

"I don't."

"Stop being funny, he knows-" The gruff voice said. It belonged to an ugly, older looking boy with greasy black hair.

"Borgin, it's fine. Now, Rosier, I'm sure, at the very least, you have some suspicions. If you guess wrong, we'll let you go, free of consequence." The silver-haired boy intoned. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, as though that'd corroborate his promise of letting Antoine go. Antoine instinctively opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.

"Don't play  _dumb,_ Rosier. Do you think I'm dumb?" The silver-haired boy's tone was menacingly flat.

"You chaps want to t-talk about Riddle?" Antoine fidgeted, uncomfortable at how high-pitched his voice sounded, compared with the older boys.

"That's good Rosier. Very good. But why? Why do we want to talk about Riddle?" The neutral inflection of the silver-haired boy did not betray his emotions about Riddle.

"Yo-you have an issue with him?"

"Very good, very good." The silver-haired boy gestured for Antoine to come closer. It was then that he noticed the fifth year prefect badge pinned on the older boy's robe. "I'm Corban Yaxley. Mona told me you're also not particularly fond of the  _miracle mudblood_ , and Jürgen here says you've a hand for potions. Is this right?"

"It is. I'm top of the class, at least between the Gryffs and us. Well, except for  _Riddle,_ of course..."

"Alright. Now, if you reckon you don't have the cunning to help us strike down Riddle's little muddy empire, tell me now, I'll obliviate you, and we'll be on our way. If you do, though, and think twice before you agree to this - if you tell a single chap outside this room of our plans, I'll personally see to it that you regret it."

"I want to help, and I won't tell anyone." Silence followed. All the eyes in the room were on him.

"Alright, good. Good! You've made the right choice, Rosier. So, here's the plan. We will be brewing an Elixir of Despair. The potion's name speaks for itself. While five years ago, one could simply have ordered such a potion from lany of the potioneers at Knockturn Alley, we all know that the muggle-charming piece of hippogriff shit that is our beloved Minister of Magic has made it damn near impossible to owl-order anything from the place. And, I don't think our parents-" Yaxley paused, wincing. "Sorry, Rosier. Your father was a commendable wizard. My dad knew him; fought with him."

"S'alright." Antoine replied, quietly.

"Anyway, don't reckon my parents would be particularly eager to covertly buy me an Elixir of Despair. Even if it is to put an uppity mudblood in his place. However, we're fortunate since we can buy some of the base mixtures and ingredients from other places. Not to mention, nick some from 'ol Sluggie's overflowing storages." A few chortles rose.

"Obviously, it'd be rather suspicious if we regularly met up and did this together. We'll take turns brewing. Borgin has agreed to lend us his copy of  _Kurséd Konkocktions_ , where the full instructions can be found on page 122." Yaxley nodded as Borgin, who smiled pridefully, as though merely being acknowledged by Yaxley were a honour.

"The potion is very delicate with its timings, however. Anyhow, we'll begin the brewing with Borgin, who will pass me a note once he's done his allocation of steps. Further, I'll pass a note to Mulciber, who will then pass a note on to Drachenzahm, who will then pass it on to Karkaroff, who will give it to you - Rosier. You restart the cycle by providing further instructions to Borgin."

"Where am I supposed to meet a fifth… sixth-?" Antoine began.

"Seventh-year." Borgin clarified, irritated.

"Well, we'll let you chaps figure that out yourself."

* * *

Edgar Nott did not regret the decision he made on the first, fateful night of Hogwarts; that of siding with a nameless, disarmed, alleged mudblood against the force of three, armed pureblood scions.

For weeks, he had been afraid that his Gryffindorish championing of the underdog would backfire. That eventually, a crack would emerge in Tom's seamless brilliance. Yet, as he sat on the closest left side of Tom, at their rectangular table in the Slytherin common room, he could find no sign that his friend, and leader, was under any duress. On Edgar's side of the table was Alphard Black, Ranulphus Lestrange and Vincent Wilkes; opposing them sat Langston Mulciber, Druettus Avery, Jacen Spritedust, and, of course, Lydia Cotterill. Their table often had the greatest mix of people from different years in the common room, save for when the Quidditch team met.

"Bassenthwaite's asked for a favour. This one's for Quidditch though, so it'd be for all of us. The house, I mean." Spritedust said.

"Continue." Tom replied.

"Well, Gryffindor's won the house cup for two years in a row. They were really good last year, though, 'cause half their team was in seventh year, and they had years of working together that none of the us did. Anyhow, although those seventh year baddies are gone and replaced with fresh faces, they're all reserves who trained with the rest of them, so they're practically three-quarters as good. Which is two-quarters too much. Oh, but the thing is, their seeker's  _always_  hot on the galleon. Mathilde Smackhammer has caught the snitch  _every_  damned game the Gryffs played in the past two years. Yes, you heard it right;  _every game._ She's a sixth year too- Smackhammer will be here next year, as well. If, as Bassenthwaite says, we want any chance of winning the cup this year, Smackhammer's got to go."

" _Quidditch_." Tom's derisive voice cut in. "I don't see the fuss about it."

Edgar recalled their first flying lesson; it was the first time Tom  _failed_ to thoroughly exceed all expectations, especially against purebloods who'd been flying for years before they held their own wand. Edgar remembered the furious expression on Tom's face as he hesitantly hovered on his broomstick, glaring at half of the rest of their year cheerfully flying overhead.

"Tom, if we win-" The controlled voice of Langston Mulciber spoke.

"I know; the common room will be full of celebration." Tom's nose scrunched. "We won't be able to gain glory for sabotaging Smackhammer, though."

"No, but Bassenthwaite and Montague will be on your good side. The rest of the team too, probably." Mulciber retorted.

"I know that. I'm deciding whether or not it's worth it." Tom's fingers interlocked, and his hands rested on the edge of the desk.

"Could get Borgin to give her a cursed piece of jewellery, or something. Or maybe just get Goyle to curse her into oblivion in a hallway; he'd take the fall. Don't think he wants to do his OWLs anyway." Lestrange offered.

"No. For the week before any Quidditch game each team and their house will be overly protective of all their players, especially star ones, like Smackhammer. Wouldn't be able to curse her, even if we wanted to." replied Spritedust.

"How long do we have, anyway?" Wilkes asked.

"Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw this Saturday. Three days."

"Damn Bassenthwaite, he could've asked earlier."

Tom's interlocked fingers released.

"What about Smackhammer's owl? Do we know if she's written anytime recently?" Tom asked.

"Her owl?"

"You heard me right, Lestrange. Seeing as no one knows, why don't you go the owlery, and check?"

"Damn, but I don't know what her owl looks like."

"The owl compartments have labels." Mulciber offered flatly.

"Right." Lestrange stood up, turned, and departed.

"What do you plan on doing with her owl, anyway? Even if you  _Imperio_ it to attack her, it wouldn't do much." Mulciber added. The other members of the table, Edgar included, had expressions of confusion on their face at the mention of the unfamiliar spell. Riddle merely smiled.

"Oh, who said anything about  _attacking_  her?"

* * *

Charles Lynch's elbows arched on the table, as his jaw sat on his fists. He was seated comfortably in  _his_ armchair; the one behind the bookshelf on Sanskrit-language healing salves and occlumency techniques. He had spent more time seated in this armchair than anywhere else in the castle, possibly even more than the Ravenclaw common room. He was certain that no one else apart from himself had sat in it for years, and that thought comforted him.

Fourth year Ravenclaw boys were all irritating, and took for granted the many privileges with which they were born; well, all, except for Charles, whose less-than-fortuitous circumstances of heritage and wealth saw constant reminder during his first and second years by his dorm-mates.

" _Nice work with the matchsticks, Lynch. Could you transfigure something larger, though?" Chester Corner asked. The others watched, and Charles recognised the sneers that were growing on their faces. He'd seen them on the faces of his muggle classmates plenty of times, back in primary school. It was only his first day at Hogwarts; Charles was promised by his mother that it wouldn't be a repeat of his distressing formative years._

" _Well, the l-limits of Gamp's Law don't theoretically say you-"_

" _No, you silly_ muggle _, think you could transfigure say, a fallen branch, into a rope?"_

" _Of course; by second year we'll actually be transfiguring live-"_

" _That's very impressive,_   _ **Lynch**_."

_Was that it? A stupid entendre on Charles' surname? Surely his fellow, intellectual Ravenclaws would scorn Chester Corner for his tastelessness. Yet, all Charles heard was laughter. Roland Haworth slapped Corner's back, an expression of uncontrollable amusement on his face._

Although he had set things straight with his dorm-mates by third year, with the help of many a seventh year curse, he still preferred to spend as little time as need be with his spoiled, lousy, pureblood dorm-mates. It seemed that they had all forgotten about their taunting of Charles during his first two years, that they had washed off their memories of it, as one might  _scourgify_ a stain of pumpkin juice off their robe. He often fantasised about  _reminding_  them.

" _To the library again, Charles?"_   _Chester Corner's playful tone asked._

" _Where else?" Charles replied sardonically, happy to maintain the status quo of the common room._

" _The Ravenclaw common room's only a nest for us eagles. Charles, unfortunately, is a phoenix._ "  _Roland chimed in. His voice was half playful, half admiring; Charles felt ambivalent towards it. Laughter was elicited; Charles laughed, but he was not amused._

" _I'm off. Take care, boys."_

" _Later, Charles."_

He wondered idly if he should prewrite another OWL essay on transfiguration, the subject he was the most behind in, in his advanced studies - he was in fourth year, but he had completed the fourth year syllabus during the latter half of his second year. Gallien Vector, the current head boy, had then agreed to privately tutor him and provide feedback on all his essays, on account of his precociousness rapidly gaining Ravenclaw house points.

He remembered the end of year feast in 1936, when the great hall was draped in glorious blue and silver, and the older boys, including the crypto-Gryffindor, libidinally overcharged quidditch meatheads, cheered for him: " _Lynch, Lynch, Lynch!"_

"Charlie! There you are. Of course you are  _here_ ; why do I even bother trying to find you in other parts of the library. Oh. Ohh, maybe the books are  _growing_  on me - I might be turning into someone like you, Charlie." The nickname  _Charlie_  and the incorrigibly bubbly tone of voice immediately informed Charles the identity of the speaker. A smile bloomed on his face.

"Charlie, you won't believe what's happened to me! Guess, will you?" Juliette de Courcillon, second-year Gryffindor and tirelessly talkative vixen, lifted herself onto Charles' desk, and folded her legs. She looked down at him, smiling. Her figure was very pretty; Charles was still slightly astonished at how much she'd grown over the break. Like him, Julie was an early bloomer.

"Knock-knock, anyone there? Charlie, guess. Guess for me; guess what happened. Charlie!?"

Julie's deep, blue eyes bore into Charles'; while conventional standards of attraction often placed light-coloured, 'piercing' eyes as the benchmark to be desired, Charles could not think of a pair of eyes in the world that even came close to Julie's pair of warm, oceanic irises. Looking into them, Charles felt as though he was swimming in a soothingly warm lake, with a rich, dark blue surface. The impassioned, warm blue threatened to melt Charles, like he was chocolate, on a burning summer day.

"Charlie! You swot! I don't care if you're absorbed in thought about some silly fourteenth century wizard's nine principles on healing potions, or whatever! I'm talking to you! Guess what happened. Guess!" Julie lightly slapped Charles in the face, her delicate fingers warm. Charles was glad he wasn't disposed towards blushing.

"If it were anyone else, I'd say that they'd concocted a potion which grants immunity to dragon pox. But you - Julie - you get excited by the changing of the weather." Charles teased. Julie laughed; dimples emerged on her cheeks, and the corners of her eye slightly scrunched.

"Well, now that you mention it, today's weather really is pleasant." Julie rabidly gestured at a bookshelf, in the direction of where Charles supposed was a window. "I've a soft spot for afternoons like these, where the sun is especially bright after a morning of rain. You can still see the clouds, too; they're still gray and angry-looking and all from having rained, but they agree with the sun. See?"

"We're indoors, Julie. I'll take your word for it, though. What's happened?"

"Charlie, I'm Gryffindor's seeker! Me! At least for now, I think. I'm playing tomorrow against your lot. Me. A second-year. Kind of anxious 'cause I'm the youngest player, along with one of the Hufflepuff chasers, I think, but I've always wanted to play Quidditch at Hogwarts. Not professionally though; I know what the-"

"My congratulations! What about Smackhammer, though?"

"Don't know. She left on short notice this morning, actually. Urgent news from family, Hamblin said so. In any case, Hamblin said I'm definitely in for the game tomorrow morning. I hope Mathilde's alright." Julie's voice was small; she had genuinely cared about whatever was going on with Mathilde Smackhammer.

Charles found it slightly irritating that she would care for anyone to that extent at Hogwarts apart from himself; he knew that he only cared for her. He wished it were also the other way around.

"Wonder what happened, must've been serious, I suppose."

"I don't know; I pressed, but Hamblin wouldn't tell. I've never seen him look like that, though. So... grave. You'd think he was professor Clearwater on a polyjuice potion." Julie looked pensive; Charles liked that, but not as much as he liked it when she smiled.

"Yet, although he told you nothing, his expression seems to have told you the severity of it." Charles replied, flatly. Julie seemed to not know how to respond for a moment; in a lighter setting, she would've chided him for being so accusing.

"Anyway, Charlie. I'm sorry; I've to go now. Training and all, for tomorrow. I'll see you after the game though, sooner rather than later, if we lose. I won't hold it against you if you don't support us Gryffs, but consider charming half your scarf red and gold, just for me?" A hint of a smile had returned to Julie's face.

"Why don't you do the honours for me? Hold on, you're sitting on my scarf."

"My bad. Sorry. And my colouring charms are very… unpolished. I'll still do it though, if you won't." Julie propped herself off the table, revealing his scarf, which had been slightly compressed by her sitting on it.

"Please do."

"Alright, alright. Don't say I didn't warn you though.  _Colovaria._ " With an elegant gesture of Julie's unicorn hair, 11-inch cherrywood wand, the silver sections of Charles' scarf changed into a crimson red, with small patches unaffected. The scarf looked luridly ridiculous, like some rural family's house elf's winter garments.

"It turned out better than I expected, huh. Well, later Charlie! Wish me luck, for tomorrow."

"See you, Julie. Good luck."

Charles wrapped the scarf tightly around his neck, savouring its warmth.


	6. A Ravenclaw's Duplicity

"10 points to Gryffindor! A brilliant Chelmondiston Charge performed by Gryffindor Captain David Hamblin - Pucey giving the stink eye to Keeper Battista; mate - it's not really his fault -"

Edgar slightly recoiled as a bludger seemed to veer uncomfortably close towards the Slytherin stand, before one of the burly Gryffindor beaters closed in on to it impossibly fast, whamming it to the Ravenclaw side of the pitch.

Quidditch was enjoyable to watch; the swiftness of the brooms, combined with the antagonistic tension of the air made it feel like an endeavour that fused together the best aspects of duelling and dancing. However, while Edgar merely  _enjoyed_ Quidditch, Videric Bassenthwaite, Slytherin Captain, and Serrell Montague, one of Slytherin's legendary chasers, were madly pivoting their bodies around in the row in front of Edgar, following the movement of the quaffle.

"What the Muggle-loving hell is King doing? Stationary passing while midfield?! Feeding his Honeydukes to a goddamn house-elf!" Bassenthwaite barked, slapping the railing in front of him. His commentary often drowned out that of Cecil Bagman's, the appointed commentator in the staff stand.

"Brilliant interception by Cornelius Stretton; Ravenclaw in possession -"

To Edgar, Cornelius Stretton seemed to be the  _quickest_ player in the game; whether it was due to the fact he inclined his body at a lower angle than everyone else on his broom, or if was due to the nature of the broom, or perhaps simply just his flying skills, Edgar could not tell.

"We need to get Bishopper to focus on Stretton in our game. No fouls. No. Fouls. Don't want a repeat of '36- you hear? Just have him tail Stretton." Bassenthwaite shouted. Montague rapidly nodded.

All of the Gryffindor players, bar their new seeker, were retreating; the synchronicity of their withdrawal reminded Edgar of a small flock of coordinated birds.

"I must say, if the rest of the games this year are anything like this debut, we're in for a very exciting Quidditch year indeed - scarcely an hour in, both teams well in the 200s - oh, brilliant, absolutely brilliant save by Gould. Stretton, bet you -" Bagman's voice boomed.

"If Smackhammer was still around, she'd have spotted the snitch by now, at least, Vids -"

"The snitch has been spotted by McManus! Juliette de Courcillon, substitute Gryffindor seeker, is making haste to catch up-"

"Come on McManus you fat lizard, come on; you can do it, COME ON!" Bassenthwaite wildly gestured at the air. Edgar wondered if he looked ridiculous when seen from the other stands.

While McManus was chasing something that was all but a phantom to Edgar's eyes, de Courcillon was chasing McManus himself, making significant headway - perhaps owing to the fact that while McManus had to swerve about to follow the whims of the tiny snitch, de Courcillon only had to follow the former.

"McManus and de Courcillon both closing in on the snitch - ooh, how intimate. McManus, mate, she's a few years younger than you, maybe-"

"MISTER BAGMAN!"

The Gryffindor seeker was now right above her Ravenclaw counterpart; her second year physique looked very small compared with the Ravenclaw's sixth year one. Both had their heads inclined in the same direction.

"Sorry professor - oh, come on! Come on! Eldritch! BLOODY HELL! COME ON! A GODDAMN SEEKER-BUMPH! You think you're so brilliant, don't you, huh, well -"

"CECIL BAGMAN! 20 POINTS FROM HUFFLEPUFF!"

Edgar had barely grasped what had all happened in the past few seconds - the frenzied pace of Quidditch often meant for a lot of retrospective, post-match thinking, as Bassenthwaite had told him before the match.

Apparently, Gryffindor beater Willis Eldritch had walloped a bludger in the direction of the snitch, causing both McManus and de Courcillon to flee apace, losing sight of the winning ball. McManus glared furiously at Eldritch, and even de Courcillon scowled at him. The Gryffindor captain furiously shouted at his beater, his arms wildly flinging about in ferocious gestures. Edgar was surprised to see his broom steady, with only his legs clutching it.

"Phew. Close one, damn it. Damn it!" Bassenthwaite sunk back into his seat, his large hand wiping his brow.

"Why  _phew?_ " Alphard Black asked.

"De Courcillon had it. The second-year slag had the game in her  _piss-stained_ _hands_. McManus was  _closer_ to the snitch, but de Courcillon was above it, and had it within  _reach._ The idiot Eldritch sabotaged her; probably didn't trust her to go for the dive. Maybe he was right - but Smackhammer would've got it." Satyros Sayre, Slytherin seeker, chimed in.

"Well, damn."

"No, not  _damn_ , Black. Thank Merlin for Eldritch's grindylow-balls-for-brains; Ravenclaw still has a shot at this." Bassenthwaite replied. His voice was surprisingly flat this time; perhaps he was finally tired.

"Thanks to Eldritch losing his gobstones, we're back to focusing on the quaffle. Corner's pass intercepted by Gifford - Stretton and Pucey coordinating a body blow… chaps -" Bagman's voice sounded considerably more deflated than it was. Edgar wondered if it was because he supported Gryffindor.

As Cornelius Stretton and the thin form of another Ravenclaw chaser, Captain Pucey, collided onto Gifford from either side, the latter merely dropped the quaffle, which was beautifully caught by Captain Hamblin, who neither of the Ravenclaws foresaw coming.

"I reckon the Gryffs are better, Ed. One-on-one, Stretton has nothing on Hamblin." Alphard Black intoned proudly, as though seventh year Gryffindor Captain David Hamblin were his friend.

"Don't know, mate. Feel like Stretton's flying is… smoother?" Edgar replied.

"Nah. He's just good at controlled acceleration, and likes to prance around a bit, like a girl. Hamblin's the ugly doxy; though his flying looks pedestrian, he knows exactly how to stir up a nightmare." Montague chimed in.

"Looks like Hamblin's coming in for the left goalpost - Battista, watch out, he might be bluffing -"

"He  _is_ bluffing, idiot! Bagman's drooling and blind, and so is Battista. Look at Hamblin's grip, in the name of Meriln! Morons!" Bassenthwaite barked, slamming his fist on the railing; Edgar was amazed that he didn't recoil his hand in pain.

"10 points to Gryffindor! That puts the Griffs exactly at a hundred point lead, 380-280…"

Captain Pucey shouted at Stretton, who whistled; the three Ravenclaw chasers retreated back close to their own hoops, as the two beaters approached closer to McManus.

"Took Pucey enough time to see what's needed to be done." Montague offered.

"Ravenclaw's become seek-and-defend mode. If Stretton can defend half as good as he can attack, Gryffindor's out of hope with the quaffle…"

Stretton and Corner lazily flew around the Ravenclaw section of the pitch, throwing the quaffle back and forth, as if they were merely practicing; two Gryffindor chasers tried to intercept them several times, to no avail, before Hamblin gestured for Eldritch and the other Gryffindor beater to intensify the assault on them.

"McManus has caught sight of the snitch!" Edgar wasn't sure whether this observation was made by Montague or Bagman; while the latter was at the staff stand, their voices sounded eerily similar on account of Bagman's voice-amplifying charm.

"Reckon he's got it this time; de Courcillon's good but she's still a kid-"

"Courcillon has weak stamina! WEAK STAMINA!" barked Bassenthwaite. Alphard Black looked at him, incredulously.

Bassenthwaite's judgment was correct: while Julie de Courcillon sped towards McManus, she wasn't as pressed on her broom as she was the first time she had zipped towards the Ravenclaw seeker.

McManus's movements reflected the same unwavering freshness which had animated him since the beginning of the game. Both the pairs of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw beaters trailed them at a distance; there seemed to be no antagonism between the pairs, as their mutually interested goal was to keep the bludger away from their own seeker.

"MCMANUS HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH! RAVENCLAW WINS! FOUR HUNDRED AND THIRTY POINTS TO THREE-EIGHTY!"

McManus raised his arms and wildly gesticulated. De Courcillon reclined on her broom, looking fatigued.

"Wooooo hoooo! Go the damn eagles! Let's go McManus, let's go McManus! And you, Riddle, you wonder child! A true Slytherin through and through!" Bassenthwaite's large frame ejected out of his seat, turned around, pulled Tom's small figure out of his seat, and cradled him as a father would their toddler-aged son, after they performed their first act of serious accidental magic.

Tom scowled at Bassenthwaite, although his eyes danced joyously; he was clearly pleased with the result that he was largely responsible in orchestrating. Montague and Sayer were also madly cheering. It was as though the Slytherin Quidditch team had won the Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw match. Edgar mused that, in a way, that was the case.

Bassenthwaite joyously threw Riddle into the air and caught him.

"Vids. Vids? VIDS! Not here - half the school's watching, you prat!' Montague's sleek, blonde haired figure tried to tame Bassenthwaite's tall, burly one- the latter only sat down by his own volition.

McManus accelerated above the Ravenclaw stand, stood up on his broomstick, and jumped into the crowd, where he was levitated up onto a hotchpotch of the Ravenclaw fans' conjured blue and silver decorations. The Ravenclaw crowd's celebratory chant was echoed mildly by the Slytherin stand's own commendatory one.

"My bad, Monty. But damn it, chaps - we're going to win this year!"

* * *

After a few seconds of deliberation, Charles decided that it would be better to go to the library than the Ravenclaw common room. He needed some repose from the sheer  _noise_ of the past few hours, internally and externally. Throughout the whole Ravenclaw v. Gryffindor match, he was unsure where his heart lay. While a Gryffindor victory would make Julie happy, it would also make her the subject of attention of dozens of brazen, aroused Gryffindor boys, and Charles knew that the illness known as Quidditch celebrations often engendered many unthought decisions. Plus, Julie said it herself: ' _I'll see you after the game though, sooner, rather than later, if we lose…_ '

Setting himself in the anachronic armchair of his familiar space, Charles breathed in joyously as he noticed the absolute tranquility of his surroundings; the library was nearly complete empty, due to the justly combined factors of post-Quidditch celebrations, and a lack of exams at this time of the year. However, just as he was about to arise again to find a tome to lose himself in for a while, he heard the sound of fast-paced, familiar footsteps, serenaded by what sounded faintly like crying. Charles' stomach churned.

"Charlie!"

Without a further word, Julie, in her sweat-soaked quidditch uniform, with her thick, brown hair beautifully disheveled, pounced onto Charles' chair. She propped herself perpendicularly on Charles, her legs hoisted over the armrest, as her arms were tugged tightly around Charles' torso and her face was buried in Charles' chest.

She was crying. Charles Lynch had seen her anxious, annoyed, and frenetic in all manner of words in the time of their friendship, but he had never seen her cry. A pang of guilt stabbed his chest as he recalled how he had earlier nearly hoped for his own house to win, just so she'd spend more time with him. He wanted to cast a blasting charm on himself.

"Hey, hey. It's okay… Julie, it's… just a game?" Charles wasn't sure what to say. He was no good at comforting people; when he himself needed comforting, no one was there for him - so he took what was his by force. He hugged her back lightly; he wanted to tightly squeeze her, but he didn't want to scare her away.

"No, no, no… no, it's… it's..." Charles felt a sense of sick pleasure followed up by another pang of guilt; she was still in her Quidditch uniform - she had ran straight to him instead of her irksome, cretin Gryffindor friends.

"Did… something happen?" The heat and moist weight of Julie's body became increasingly palpable. Charles' breath became heavy, and his heart fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird. He could feel her soft, warm backside on his thighs. His forearm felt the delicate outline of her spine. The odour of her sweat pleasantly flicked against his nostrils, and its moisture intensified the feeling of her warmth.

They had never been this physically intimate before; nothing close to it. Goosebumps deliriously spread through his skin.

"I got kicked from the team, Charlie. I-I don't know." Her voice was barely audible, and her body seemed unnaturally small, like a small child - a contrast from yesterday, when she sat on the desk, and seemed like a grown-up woman. Charles sometimes forgot she was only in second year.

"Why? You played just fine, especially for a second year - no, I mean, you played very well, I-I'm not an expert at Quidditch, but it looked like you came pretty close the first time…" Charles chided his lack of eloquence. Anger flared in his stomach at the thought of David Hamblin, an idiot Gryffindor, hurting  _his_ Julie like this.

"I-. Yeah, I could've got it if it wasn't for Eldritch's… bad… move… but no, it was Smackhammer. She hurt me... She cursed me and hexed me and -" Julie's arms tightened around his torso further, and he felt ever so slightly uncomfortable- her arms were stronger than their thinness suggested.

"Smackhammer? What did she do to you?" Charles thought it was strange that the Gryffindor seeker proper would return less than a day after leaving, for supposed family business.

Julie made no response.

"Julie? Please tell me what happened." Charles lowered his voice - he realised he had shouted his previous question.

"S-she called me a s-slag. A manipulative s-slag. S-she said I-I t-tried sending a f-fake letter… something… she's crazy. I-I-" Julie's voice was so fractured and small that she didn't even sound like herself. However, for Charles, things began to piece together.

"You're not a slag. You are a thousand times the witch Smackhammer is… what's this about a fake letter?" Something had seemed amiss last night when Julie informed him that Smackhammer had to leave on short notice. In retrospect, it seemed obvious.

"I-I don't know. I- she-she accused me of s-stealing her damn owl. I-. I don't know, Charlie. Hamblin didn't w-want me off, but Smackhammer is more important t-than me." Julie broke into an ugly sob. Charles' fist scrunched.

"The bitch told Hamblin to kick you off the team? Because of some stupid, baseless conspiracy?!"

"Charlie, please…"

"Why would she even blame you? Just because you were the reserve seeker? You're not a vain person, everyone knows this. Everyone! You were going to become Gryff seeker anyway by fourth year - the shortsightedness of the bitch!" Charles noticed that Julie's grip on him was slightly loosening. He realised he was intimidating her.

"Please d-don't say that. She was stressed… H-Hamblin says she'll be okay n-next week maybe. Probably. He knows her well. I don't know w-why I'm crying; it's going to be fine. I'll be back on the team."

"I didn't mean to - but she shouldn't have insulted you. No one should insult you, Julie."  _Not when I'm here to protect you, because I always have, and, always will, love you._

"Thank you, Charlie. I'm… cold. Can I s-stay for a bit? You're warm..."

Charles removed his blue and red scarf and placed it over her back. He awkwardly crossed his right arm over her back to withdraw his wand.

" _Porrigo."_ The scarf extended to the size of a large blanket, as its striped blue and red pattern perpetuated into a comical looking checkerbox one. He tugged the top of the charmed scarf-blanket to cover Julie's shoulders.

" _Omnimenti minima. Wingardium Leviosa. Duro._ " A small bundle of floating twigs materialised, and were then suspended in the air at a foot's distance from the armrest.

" _Incendio._ " Charles smiled meekly at his improvised little floating fireplace.

"We can stay like this for as long as you want, Julie."

* * *

"Something going on, Charles?" Galleon Vector, Head Boy, and one of the few students that Charles truly respected, asked. He had actually looked at Charles; usually he just talked while his eyes were stuck to a book, or a large piece of parchment.

"I'm fine." Charles couldn't tell his friend and tutor the truth; that he'd spent four hours in the library in embrace with a second-year Gryffindor girl, and that he was madly, agonisingly in love with her.

"You're not; but since you clearly don't want to talk about it, I won't press. Remember, though, that I am here, should you need me."

"Thank you, Galleon." Charles appreciated the Head Boy's good intentions, but knew that he wouldn't understand; purebloods never do.

Juliette de Courcillon was an esteemed pureblood; her maternal grandmother, Venusia Crickerly, was the Minister for Magic. Her other grandparents all grew up in large manors, and two of them died in them.

Charles Lynch was a muggleborn, without even a muggle father. The only future which Charles found bearable was one which he shared with Julie, but esteemed pureblood girls never married muggleborn men, even if they wanted to.

Charles didn't know how Julie felt about him; she obviously liked him as a friend, and was fine with intimate physical contact, but she showed absolutely no signs of desiring anything further. He wondered if it was because she was only in second year, but then remembered that his own dorm-mates had their first kisses by second year. Why wasn't he good enough?

A wave of nausea washed over him; why wasn't he worthy of Julie's affection, to a higher level? He was entrusted as a sort of pseudo-older-brother, even father, but she did not  _desire_ him. Charles could not understand why a sense of dread and despair permeated through his body; he had, for the past few hours, held Julie in warm, intimate embrace. Was that not progress? Or was it simply that, regardless of whatever progress they made, wizarding society would simply never allow them to truly be together?

Charles understood now; he had to make his own fortune. If you couldn't throw a quaffle in the hoop, you simply replaced the hoop. Charles was the most able wizard in his year, and probably more competent than the majority of OWL students; he would be able to wrestle and beat fate into the shape he desired.

" _Bombarda!_ " Charles whipped his wand at the ceiling. Although the wards prevented any physical damage, the cracking  _bang_ sound drew the attention of everyone in the Ravenclaw common room.

"Lynch,  _what the fuck?_ " The shrill voice of a girl shouted.

"He does this every few weeks, or so."

"Merlin's toad-shit infested beard, I just spilled ink all over my potions essay!" A fifth-year boy shouted. Charles had finished the fifth-year potions curriculum late last year.

"Geez. You alright, mate? You were looking all weird and serious at the game." Roland Haworth, who was sitting besides him, asked.

"Maybe cast that at the invisible rope around your balls all the damn time,  _Lynch_." A stupidly smug third-year boy exclaimed.

" _Stupefy_!" Charles barked.

The boy was thrown against the wall and knocked out.

The voices in the common room multiplied. Charles got up, and ran for the door. He did not immediately regret stunning the boy; although he would be in for a few weeks of detention with professor Clearwater, his head of house was very fond of him, and would not assign him anything serious.

At the threshold of the staircase, Charles threw himself over the handrail, and began falling.

The first time he did this was largely an impulse both suicidal and both curious; he wanted to see if he could successfully cast the slowing charm. If he couldn't, his then second year mind decided that he deserved to die.

Now, two years later, it was merely a habit, almost veering on the mundane, to be performed, when no one else was around.

" _Arresto momentum!_ " Charles was suspended in the air for a moment, all the adrenaline rushing to the bottom of his throat. He fell flat onto the grimy fourth floor of the west wing. While running down the stairs of the castle's main hull, a portrait of a thin, late-17th century looking Belgian wizard told him to slow down. Charles cast a  _silencio_ on him; he wanted to cast a  _diffindo_.

He found what he needed: Gerald Kirke, a middling Gryffindor in his year group, walking alone, through the hallways.

" _Scandali!_ " Kirke fell over, but made haste to withdraw his wand and turn around. Gryffindors were so predictable.

" _Expelliarmus!_ " Charles barked loudly. He didn't care if a teacher came; he'd extract the information he needed from Kirke, and be gone, within a minute. Kirke's wand jumped out of his hand, and flew into Charles' left one.

"Where is Mathilde Smackhammer?!" Charles shouted at the fallen boy.

"Piss off-"

"Shut up!" Charles kicked the boy in the stomach, a reflexive smile forming on his face as Kirke yelped in pain.

"Where is Smackhammer?" Charles asked again, this time, in a neutral tone.

"Okay-okay, damn, Lynch. She's... wait." Kirke's eyes narrowed. The news that someone had planned for Smackhammer's temporary disappearance from school with a fake letter had spread in the Gryffindor common room, then.

"How the fuck am I supposed to know, I'm in fourth year. In case you didn't notice, she's-"

"Shut up!" Charles snarled. "Don't give me that hippogriff shit - I know you're lying!"

"Hmmmph. S'pose lying's the song of your lot, and the Slytherins, aye. Well, piss off Lynch, 'cause I'm not telling you a thing!"

"Shut up!  _Incendio!"_ A small flame flickered at the tip of Charles' wand, and he slashed it as a nearby tapestry, setting it ablaze. Charles hadn't expected the flames to spread so fast and completely incinerate the large tapestry. At first he was slightly afraid of his own unfettered power, but pride followed in its place. Several of the surrounding paintings gasped and started shouting in indignation. His detention was likely just prolonged a couple of weeks.

"If you want your wand back, and if you want to  _not get burned_ , you better tell me where the fuck Smackhammer is!"

"Piss off, Lynch! You-"

Charles pressed the tip of his wand close to Kirke's forehead; although the flame did not make contact with Kirke, it was clear that the heat did, as Kirke's face rapidly reddened.

"Godric fucking Gryffindor you're damn crazy! Fine, fine, damn it! She's at the astronomy tower. She's there! Alright? Give my wand-"

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"My- what? Lynch, you god damn just said I can't lie for my fucking life. I wasn't lying, she's there with Timotheus Weasley- my-"

"Who's Timotheus Weasley?!"

"Her boyfriend! They go there for dates on Saturday nights, a-"

Charles kicked the boy, threw his wand besides him, and left for the astronomy tower.

* * *

" _Ipse Larva."_ Although Charles felt nothing, he knew that his face would be obscured by black fog to anyone who looked at him.

There was a serenity about the astronomer tower that Charles hadn't noticed before; he supposed that being there alone, with just two people, who were unaware of his presence, allowed for much more breathing space than when he was there for lessons with the rest of his year. He unsheathed his wand and tiptoed towards the silhouetted figures of Timotheus Weasley and Mathilde Smackhammer.

" _Expelliarmus!_ " One moment, Timotheus Weasley had his hands on the floor, his posture reclined against the supports of his arms, as Mathilde Smackhammer's head rested on his shoulder. The next moment, he was upright, in combat-ready position, with his wand in his right hand, and Charles' wand in the other.

" _Lumos!_ " Timotheus Weasley's brightened wand defined the features of his and Smackhammer's faces; a seventh-year Gryffindor prefect badge was pinned on his robe. He had long, red hair, a strong jaw, and broad shoulders. Smackhammer had a pretty-fox like face, with short, black hair. Charles groaned in pain; the disarming spell had thrown him back a couple of feet.

Charles had foreplanned the entire scheme in his mind - he would dangle the couple off the tip of the astronomy tower as he threatened Smackhammer to ensure Julie's reinstatement on the team. Neither of them would know his identity, as the obscuration charm would cloud his face and filter his voice. However, now, he had no idea how to readapt his plans.

He chided himself for thinking Gryffindor's prize sixth year seeker and her seventh-year boyfriend would be as easy to subdue as the imbecile Gerald Kirke.

" _Finite Incantatem."_  Weasley scowled as Charles' face was revealed.

"Who are you, and what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?  _Accio stranger!_ " With a flick of Charles' own wand, Charles was dragged towards Weasley, who then grabbed him by the collar. He felt a sense of disappointment at his wand bending so easily to the will of another wizard.

"I-I just wanted to tell you something." Charles said, dazed.

"Quit feeding me cockatrice shit. You planned on attacking us. Now tell me who you are!" Weasley barked at Charles. Even Mathilde Smackhammer affectionately patted her hand on Weasley's sleeve; she clearly wasn't used to seeing her boyfriend so ferocious. Charles gulped.

"Alright - look. I'm Charles Lynch. I'm a friend- friend of Julie de Courcillon. Just wanted to say, she didn't steal your owl, or s-send you a fake letter."

"Oh yeah, then who did?" This time, it was Smackhammer's flat voice that interjected. Her eyes, however, seemed to flare up in fury at the mention of Julie's name. Charles' fear was supplanted by his anger.

"Did you see the Slytherin stands today, or are you fucking blind - OW!" Weasley punched Charles in the gut.

"That's my girlfriend you're talking to, mate. Here." Weasley chided, before presenting Charles his wand.

 _"What?"_  Charles briefly entertained the idea that he was dead, and in some sort of absurd queue for the afterlife - Weasley was offering him back his wand, after he had clearly planned on attacking them.

"Your wand. Take it back." Charles snatched his wand, waiting for the catch. There was none. He snorted as he realised that it was Weasley's absurd sense of Gryffindor honour affecting his decision making.

"I saw the Slytherin stand. What about it?" Smackhammer said, obliviously. For a moment, Charles felt a burning impulse to  _stupefy_  her off the ledge of the tower.

"Notice how, unlike the Hufflepuff stand, there was not only the entirety of Slytherin's Quidditch team, but also nearly their entire first to third year cohorts?" Charles' voice was steadier this time; he knew he was getting through to the Gryffindors.

"Get to the point, Lynch."

"The Slytherins, in particular, a group of the younger ones, kidnapped your owl and sent you whatever letter it was that drew you out of the school. Right after the game when I was heading to the library-"

"Hold on mate, you're telling me you headed to the library  _right after_ the game? Your lot won!" Weasley asked, incredulous.

"Correct, anyway, I overheard some young Slytherin chaps talking about how they finally had a chance at the cup, a-and, I heard someone say, 'Tom, how'd you do it?' before another snake told him to shut up. You'd think they'd be more cunning about this sort of thing."

"Oh… my, oh no. Oh. No." Smackhammer stammered. Weasley let go of Charles to put his arms around her.

"What's wrong, sweetheart? And Lynch, you expect me to believe you  _tried_ to sneak up behind us, armed, just to  _tell_ Tillie something? Doesn't sound right." Weasley glared at Charles, while Smackhammer looked desolately at the ground. Charles recognised Smackhammer's emotion; guilt.

"W-well, Julie's my friend and all, and she was really, really sad and I-I wanted to - avenge her. All I would've done was a hex or two. No real damage. Really."

"Oh Merlin, I've done something terrible, Tim. I need to go - I really need to -" Smackhammer began, in a hushed tone.

"Look, Smackhammer. Could you p-promise me that you won't tell anyone  _I told you_  this information? About the Slytherins, I mean. Just say you noticed it yourself." Charles continued.

"Of course… I won't involve you, Lynch." Smackhammer replied. The tiredness in her voice made her sound old.

"Tillie? What happened? What'd you do?" The anger finally seemed to have flushed out of Weasley's voice. There was only concern.

"I'm so, so sorry Lynch. I- I was so wrong to Julie. I need to talk to her, now. Excuse me. Sorry, Tim; I'm s-so sorry." With that, Smackhammer turned, and left in quick, hushed steps.

Weasley sighed.

"Mate, what in Merlin's name is going on?"

"Wait, you don't know? Your own girlfriend didn't even tell -"

"Watch it, chap, watch it."

"Well, she shouted and cast hexes and curses at Julie de Courcillon. Oh, and she got Hamblin to kick her off the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Happy?"

"Oh, shit."

"Yeah."

"Look, know what, mate? Just go, I won't deduct points or anything. Thanks for letting me know, I suppose, but you really shouldn't try sneak up on a pair of older students undetected. Thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be smart. Tillie is sorry though; hope you can forgive her."

"I forgive her." Charles lied. No one made Julie cry and get away with it.

* * *

Tom Riddle, although a small child, was very, very handsome. When Lydia first saw him, she had thought of him as a pallid, undernourished, neatness-obsessed  _creature_ , but now, he radiated a luscious potentiality which Lydia wanted nothing more than to cultivate.

It had seemed that merely a month and a half at a proper  _magical_ place with suitable nourishment had  _sculpted_ Tom's features. Lydia could swear that his eyebrows weren't nearly as thick during Tom's first few days of school as they were now. His lips used to be small and chapped; now, they looked thick, and beautifully proportionate. He had also seemed  _wiry_  before; now, his bones seemed to be slightly wider, and his flesh more evenly distributed.

Tom was also taller - this, Lydia was sure of. She knew that eleven year old boys grew fast, but Tom truly made it palpable to her; she remembered being nearly half a head taller than him no more than a few weeks ago. Now, he was nearly her height.

As they sat at the table in classroom no. 4, a long-abandoned but refurnished potions classrooms a minute's walk away from the Slytherin dungeon, which had been retrofitted to what was now known in the Slytherin common room as 'Tom's room', Lydia could not help but stupidly smile as Tom's arm tugged at her waist. Today was one of those days where Tom was inexplicably in a  _touchy_ mood - it was as though there was a duel in his mind, between that of whether physical contact with the other sex was to be desired or avoided, and the results of the disagreement spilled out onto the calendar on a daily basis.

She felt like the Lady of a powerful Lord, as she sat besides Tom at the end of the long table, whereas the others sat at either side; Tom's loyal subjects.

The sound of grunting and struggle was just outside of the door. Corban Yaxley and Mulce withdrew their wands, slowly approaching it. The door opened to an unceremonious kick from the outside.

"Ge'roff me, you -" A slightly tall, thin framed, pale Ravenclaw boy with black hair and ugly eyeglasses was dragged in ignominiously by the huge figure of Gurganus Goyle and the smaller, but nonetheless still large figure of Druettus Avery.

"What's this?" Mulce asked, his wand lowered. The Ravenclaw boy was clearly no longer considered a threat.

"Charles Lynch, from my year. Highest in all classes, even though he's a dumb mudblood. Says he wants to see Tom." Goyle's deep, flat voice replied.

"And you thought bringing him  _here_  was a good idea? How thick could you be?  _Tentaclifors_." Ranulphus Lestrange mocked, his expression one of boredom. Goyle's head was replaced by a large, thick green tentacle.

"Cut that shit out, Lestrange.  _Finite Incantatem_." Yaxley said. Gurganus Goyle's vast head returned. "Now,  _Lynch_ , what do you want?"

"I just wanted to warn -" Lynch's voice began. It was slightly croaky, as though he had shouted a lot throughout the day.

"You're in no position to threaten us, mud-." Yaxley replied, flatly. He pointed his wand at Lynch.

"I-I'm not threatening you. I- look, the Gryffindors know what Tom did with Stackhammer's owl, they-"

" _What?_ " Mulce's voice sounded more exasperated than Lydia had ever heard it before.

"They-" Lynch's croaky voice continued.

" _How?_ How in the name of Herpo the fucking foul did they find out?" It was the first time Lydia had seen Mulce so  _discomposed._ She shuddered slightly as the mental image of her impeccable older friend fractured. While Mulce was a  _good_ Slytherin, he had nothing on Tom.

"Look, I overheard Smackhammer talking with some Gryffs. They sounded quite angry about 'Tom'. I don't know how they… pieced it together, but they did."

"But why tell us? We're no friends of yours." Tom intoned, calmly.

"I don't like the  _Gryffs_. Had trouble with them in the past few years. Was fine with your lot, though." Charles spat out the word  _Gryffs_ the way Mulce sometimes spat out the word  _mudblood_. Lydia noticed that the first time he said it, however, was in a perfectly neutral manner.

"The mudblood is right." Goyle's deep voice added. It seemed absurd to Lydia that the hulking form of Goyle and the willowy weakling that was this Lynch boy were in the same year.

"Alright, thanks for telling us, mud-boy. Now, out!" Yaxley snarled. Lydia noticed that he often liked to take authority in the room when Tom didn't, probably due to the fact he was oldest among them, save the spook Borgin, whenever he came.

"Hold on, Yaxley. Charles Lynch, was it?" Tom asked. Lydia noticed that he didn't even inflect Lynch's muggle surname with malice.

Goyle and Avery stopped dragging Charles towards the door. Yaxley looked slightly displeased at his command being overriden, but said nothing.

"Yes." Lynch's small voice answered.

"Would you be interested, then, in helping us?" Tom asked. Lydia found the atmosphere to almost be comical; Tom was presenting the illusion of choice when Lynch was confined by the tight grips of Goyle and Avery, with Yaxley's wand pointed at his face. However, Lynch's face seemed to brighten at the Tom's question.

"Sure, in what way?"

"Make friends with Smackhammer and the other Gryffindors; learn what they're saying, what they're planning. Help them, and even join in on their plans." Tom began.

Charles opened his mouth to voice either an objection or pose a question, but Tom cut him off, and continued.

"Talk to them, and complain about Lestrange or Mulciber. Make friends, as you have the same enemies." Tom gestured to the two older boys, who didn't look thrilled at the prospect.

"In the classes you share with Goyle, you will pass him notes on anything I need to know. Some days, Goyle will give you a note, saying a place where we will meet personally. Can you do this?"

"Yes." Lynch's small, uninspiring voice said.

"Are you sure? You can't turn your back on us." Tom repeated, pivoting slightly forward in his chair. His arm tugged Lydia forward, too.

"Yes, I will help you." Lynch repeated, with a newfound confidence.

"Very good."

* * *

"Hmph." Igor Karkaroff made a poor attempt at fake coughing. As he covered his mouth with his right hand, his left hand hastily shoved a piece of scrunched-up ball of parchment into Antoine Rosier's right hand, beneath the table.

For such a precocious potioneer, Karkaroff sure could be thick - if anyone else sat on the table, they would've noticed their interaction. Antoine merely pocketed the scrunched parchment, and returned to focusing on his herbology essay. Karkaroff departed six minutes later. Ten minutes after Karkaroff left, Antoine coyly removed the scrunched parment from his pocket.

" _Coaequo._ " Yaxley had taught him the paper-straightening charm; and Antoine found that it was much more helpful than it had sounded. Antoine bought the parchment onto the desk. Karkaroff's script was an ugly, rushed cursive.

_Begin at step 24. The grinded acromantula fang must be added exactly at 8:45 pm tonight. I did the arithmancy and checked it again five times. It is correct. The grinded acromantula fang is in the cupboard, in small jar. Very, VERY important you don't spill it out the potion. We are close now. One week from tonight, Borgin add Lethifold eyes, and it is ready, to poison Thomas Riddle._

A smile crept onto Antoine's face.


	7. Premonitions

"Come in, Charles." Professor Clearwater's voice was gentle, but tired. A dull weight lifted off Charles' chest; his head of house was not angry at him.

The office was almost as familiar to Charles as the Ravenclaw common room; he had perhaps been in it more often than any other member of his house, considering both his innumerable scheduling of classes with upper years, and his detentions. A suit of armour bearing the Ravenclaw crest on its rusting chestpiece inclined its head at Charles. Charles hesitantly nodded back.

Charcoal, Professor Clearwater's niffler, was perched on a small pillow on the Professor's large, black desk, between neatly organised stacks of parchment and a few textbooks with magically-mended binders. It was playing with a tussling chocolate frog.

Charles took a seat. The Professor's arms were crossed on the table, and Charles saw a frown beneath his daintily combed beard.

"So, what's been happening, Charles?" Clearwater's eyes bore into his own. Charles looked away; although he could reveal his debacle with Smackhammer, he couldn't mention a thing about Riddle. The idea of letting off steam about his unrequited love, however, was appealing; although the Professor wouldn't understand, he would be better at sympathising than at least any of the boys in his house.

"Stress, sir… you see… I like a girl, but I don't think she even knows that I do, let alone, well, like me back."

"Oh dear. Well, lad, you're going through a time which all young blokes eventually endure through. Don't fret, though, as eventually, the girl will like you back, or, as cruel as it is to say, you'll  _move on_. I remember the first time I thought I loved a girl. With the benefit of retrospect, the whole ordeal was pretty stupid." Clearwater said, with exaggerated sagacity.

"How did you deal with it, sir?"

"Ha. I was a little younger than you were, but a whole lot more faint-hearted. Never even talked to the girl. At some point, my heart just put her aside. Maybe this isn't the answer you're looking for, but trust me; like I said, your issue will resolve itself. Don't fret on it, Charles. In a few years time when you're out in the world, as a ministry bigshot or a leading spellcrafter, this will all seem very silly indeed."

Charles' indignation flared; his professor had no idea what he was going through. He said it himself, he never talked to the girl. Julie was Charles' best friend, but unfortunately, nothing more, to her. Even his head of house's habit of offhandedly complimenting Charles didn't get through.

"I suppose so, sir."

"If you don't mind satiating my intrusive curiosity, would you mind telling me who the lucky girl is? Is it, by any chance, Phaedra Gamp?" Clearwater asked, haughtily.

Charles knew that wizarding society usually involved older men with younger women, but he also knew that, high school convention often dictated couples in the same year group. He definitely couldn't say a thing about Julie.

"Sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I don't think I'd be comfortable with you knowing."

"That's understandable. In any case, Charles, in spite of your  _stunning of third years_ and  _burning of tapestries_ , I still owe you one for all the pride you've sired for my old house. I am quite confident that Miss Gamp is  _very fond_ of you, in case you haven't noticed. She looks at you the way in charms, the way you pore over post-NEWT tomes." Charles had not, in fact, noticed Phaedra's affections. He was relieved that Kirke hadn't dobbed on him, glad for the Gryffindor's sense of petulant pride. But there was a more pressing issue.

"Sir - how did you know that I… burned the tapestry?" Charles asked, his voice strained. If there was a witness to his interrogation of Kirke, he would be forced to reveal his situation with Smackhammer, and potentially then risk all his nascent plans with Riddle.

"I didn't, but I thought that you did. Now, you just confirmed my suspicion; otherwise, I would've had to requisition your wand after this detention, and spend a considerable amount of time looking into its wardwork to see an itinerary of spells casted over the previous day." Relief flooded Charles' veins, but a scowl crossed his face at his head of house's deception.

"Well, thanks for letting me know about Phaedra, sir." Charles' mind drifted to the buxom, black-haired fourth year girl. Charles had no idea what Phaedra Gamp saw in him, if Clearwater was right. The notion of a girl his own age desiring him seemed impossible. Phaedra was  _attractive_ , Charles thought, but in no way comparable to Julie.

"It's the least I could do. Anyway, I still have you for another three hours tonight, and every Sunday thereafter for the  _next five months._  Perhaps you could help me grade these third-year essays on the banishing charm? Don't be too harsh on Vickers, though-"

"Vickers?"

"Walden Vickers. The third-year boy you stunned. Apologise to him, by the way; I've asked him to make amends with you, too. Anyway, I recall the essay you wrote on the banishing charm, when you were in  _first year_. When I read it, I felt as though I was a second-rate beater who'd accidentally caught the world-cup winning snitch."

"Sir - you give me too much credit -"

"Don't be coy now, Charles. Anyway, here are the essays. Try to evenly distribute the grades."

* * *

"You're sure Riddle will eat these?" Yaxley asked.

"In fact, they're the  _only_ ones he eats. I've bought this three times and shared them in the dorm each time. Trust me - they are the  _only ones_ Riddle eats." in Antoine's palm was a small, dark chocolate oyster. It was charmed to slowly oscillate between closing and opening, and it was 95% pure cocoa. Antoine found it disgusting.

"You better be right, Rosier." Yaxley pointed his wand at the potion vial, unscrewing it. A short, elegant stream of the crimson liquid, which glowed with a brilliant luminescence; like what Antoine imagined the blood of veelas looked like, spurted gracefully from the vial. The end of the stream was suspended in the mouth of the chocolate in Antoine's hand.

With another movement of his wand, the enchanting crimson stream flowed back into the potion, leaving a single droplet of red in the mouth of the chocolate oyster.

" _Liquo_.  _Induresco._ " Part of the oyster's lower shell melted slightly, absorbing the droplet of despair, before solidifying again. It made an amusing, slight moan in pain.

Antoine placed the oyster back in the ornamental cast of his large-sized, premium quality assortment box of Honeyduke's. With a gesture of Yaxley's wand, the unhitched ribbon around the box tied itself. The box looked as good as new.

* * *

They never spent time in Tom's room on Sunday  _mornings_. Edgar knew that Tom was a creature of habit; to set a new precedent like this could only mean the inauguration of a new schedule, or some important event.

Already, there was Gurganus Goyle, Mulciber, Spritedust, Avery, Lestrange, Alphard Black, Jürgen Drachenzahm, and himself. Lydia Cotterill, Tom's doll-attaché, was not invited. Edgar hoped they didn't have a falling out; he found Lydia's unabating adoration of Tom quite amusing. While Avery, Ed Spritedust, Lestrange and Alphard looked confused, Mulciber, for all his customary sobriety, looked extremely stern. He was in on Tom's plan. Jurgen's thin face had an unreadable, but uncomfortably alien, expression.

Edgar fidgeted at the sleeve of his robe.

"Tom, who are we waiting for?"

"Rosier, Karkaroff, and Borgin."


	8. Elixir of Despair

Left hand behind his back with his right arm extended, Antoine hovered the large, premium assortment box of Honeydukes half a yard ahead of the tip of his shoes. It was as though he were a glorified manor-steward, bringing a coddled heir their favourite delicacy. He was flanked by Igor Karkaroff and Borgin, both of whose outwardly stony expressions were terribly imperfect; anxiety seemed to crease in their cheeks, and spoil the white of their eyes. Antoine hoped he didn't look that way; Riddle was good, to an unsettling degree, at reading between the lines.

Borgin, with a twisted motion of his wand, wordlessly opened the door of  _Tom's Room_. As soon as he Antoine entered the room, he knew something was amiss. The first clue was that Cotterill was not at Tom's side. Mulciber avoided looking at the entering trio; his body was simply turned to the side, pretending to watching the sleeping, faded painting of a medieval potioneer. Jürgen's eyes darted uneasily at the floor.

"Glad you chaps found your way." Tom jeered. His expression was at once assertive and haughty.

The realisation hit Antoine like the frigid, angular hand of a dementor on his shoulder.

Igor Karkaroff sprinted out the room, but was hoisted back in a moment later by Yaxley. Karkaroff's expression was one of consummate horror; he was so frightened that he hardly looked human. The box of Honeydukes dropped to the floor, on account of Antoine's shaking wand-hand.

"Yaxley! You hunk of werewolf ass! Fucking set us up, for -" Borgin withdrew his wand.

" _Silencio. Expelliarmus."_ Yaxley casted.

Borgin seethed, his mouth twisting wildly without producing a single sound. Yaxley chuckled.

"Jürgen.. w-why... I-I-" Antoine fumbled.

"T-they said they'd find out if I t-told you, I h-had no choice… I'm sorry! I'm sorry, you don't know how sorry-" Jürgen stammered.

"You betrayed me! We've been friends  _since we were little more than toddlers_  and you - you sold me out! You - w _hy?!"_

"N-no other way. W-was hoping you'd tell Riddle a-about the plot like Mulciber… it  _can't_ have gone any-" Jürgen pleaded. Antoine walked towards him, wand aimed as his chest; Jürgen recoiled.

"No  _other way?_  How 'bout not selling out your best mate in the first place!?  _Incarc-_ "

" _Expelliarmus."_ Came Yaxley's almost flat, amused voice. "Continue the show now, lads."

"Ant, please. I- there was no choice. This was going to happen eventually. Just h-happened that Tom a-approached me instead of y-you-"

"You care what that  _mudblood-_ "

" _Doloructuo!"_ shouted Riddle's voice, no longer as composed as it was during his derisive welcoming.

Antoine felt as though he were hit by a hundred bludgers simultaneously; his anger at Jürgen immediately dissipated. Cold, nauseating fear occupied the space it had vacated.

* * *

Edgar had no idea what was going on. He had always been privy to Tom's plans before, but now, as Tom cast a curse that was uncharacteristically dark, even for him, at Antoine Rosier, Edgar Nott was confused, and frightened.

"Langston; I thank you for your loyalty. Yax and Jürgen; I thank you for your cooperation." Tom said, his voice as calm as the touch of silk.

Edgar's stomach churned at the fact that Jürgen Drachenzahm had been complicit in one of Tom's greatest exploits yet, while he was completely in the dark. He wanted to say something; raise a concern, but he knew that whining would do him no good.

Karkaroff, still under the influence of a silencing charm, tried to escape again. Just before he raised the threshold of the door, Yaxley casually  _accio_ 'd him back.

"The three of you have had  _weeks_ to tell me about your backstabbing. Since I am  _merciful_ , you will only pay that which you wanted to give."

"Riddle. Please. C'mon. I've been good to ya, I've helped sort some affairs out, like with those pesky fourth year Gryffindors, I-" Borgin began.

"Shut up. Yaxley, do me the honours."

Edgar hadn't noticed until now that, in Yaxley's hand, was a glimmering, richly crimson potion. Although Edgar was no prodigy at potions like Tom, or even Lydia, he viscerally knew, from the colour of the concoction, that it didn't bode well for the drinker.

Borgin turned and ran for the door.

" _Incarcerous._ " Yaxley lazily strode towards Borgin's bound body.

"Alright, honey. Make this easy for me, and don't fidget, aye?" With a brusque swish of his wand, the small chains which had just manifested around Borgin's mouth dematerialised. Borgin, however, kept his mouth staunchly shut.

"Open up." Yaxley said, calmly. Borgin refused.

"Have it your way, then.  _Oculomorsis!_ " This time, Yaxley  _enthusiastically_ slashed his wand. Borgin began to cry, but his tears weren't translucent like water; they were red. Hesitantly, he opened his mouth. Goosebumps diffused from Edgar's neck to the tips of his fingers.

"Now, if you close your mouth when I pour the potion in, I will cast the  _cruciatus curse_ on you. Understood?" Yaxley snapped. Borgin's head remained still, his mouth uncomfortably gaping.

"Understood?!" Borgin barely bobbed his head.

"Good." Yaxley wordlessly unscrewed the potion with his wand, and, in an almost comically dramatic fashion, slowly levitated it over Borgin's body, like a newly precipitated dementor drifting over an abandoned, snow-smothered village. Edgar's guts seethed.

The vial slanted, and its glistening, blood-red content began to drip into Borgin's open mouth. It was perversely reminiscent of how St. Mungo healers sustained Edgar's bedridden great uncle, with nutrition-supplementing salves.

* * *

"Where am I? W-where am I? P-p-p-" It was clear that Borgin had ingested the horrendous potion, as his head began to violently shake. Yaxley recast the silencing charm on him, but it only worsened his convulsions.

"Get away from me! Get the the hell away from me!" Igor Karkaroff tremulously waved his wand at the air. A few red sparkles emitted from his wand as he tripped over himself and gasped at the sight of the ceiling. He had only ingested his portion of the potion a few seconds ago.

Antoine felt his pulse clutching at his neck. He had, in desperation, reassessed his situation over and over, looking for a way to escape. There was none. He didn't dare look at Riddle's face. 

"Antoine, I appreciate your habit of gifting the others and myself these fine chocolates. I believe that, as a reward for your consideration, a dark oyster is  _in order_ for you." Riddle's taunting silkiness felt like a firm hand clasping Antoine's neck. 

"Tom…  _Please_."

"It is rude to deny offers given by those  _superior_ to you." The puddle of Riddle's deceptive calmness contained a dark, sharp blot of ink.

Antoine finally conceded that fate had weaved him into the ugliest, stickiest web. A derisive sense of calm washed over him; his heart rate even slightly cooled. All he could do now was minimise the harm - perhaps he could try hold the chocolate in his mouth and simply feign  _despair_ , and spit it out once the show was over. He also finally, finally realised that Tom Riddle was someone who he had to get on the good side of.

With a lazy, wordless gesture of his wand, Tom levitated up the box of Honeydukes into Antoine's reach. He even managed to vanish the lid without removing the box's contents.

"... Thank you, Tom."

Antoine placed the wretched oyster into his mouth. He couldn't remember, but he hoped that the  _dark oyster was_ one of those chocolates which were charmed only to melt if you mashed it with your teeth. At first, a sense of mistaken relief washed over him as the oyster seemed to stay firm in his mouth, but then, he felt the odious sensation of runny warmth trickling down his tongue, onto his teeth, and gums.

His pulse began to accelerate impossibly fast.

* * *

As Borgin and Igor Karkaroff writhed in Yaxley's conjured chains like desiccated sea-worms, Antoine Rosier's head began to rapidly quiver in an inhuman way. Although Yaxley and Mulciber had control of the situation, Edgar found his hand reflexively gripping his wand.

" _Ins'tenio!_ " Antoine wildly beckoned his wand at the air. Nothing happened. Tom raised himself from his chair, cackling, and walked towards Rosier's jittery form.

" _Ins'tenio! Piss off! My - where it is - where! M-m-mother?!"_ Tears flowed abundantly from Antoine's eyes, but his voice was eerily firm, although broken. Tom withdrew his wand.

A ticklish sensation crawled up Edgar's throat; if he had eaten lunch, he would be disgorging it right now.

" _Doloructuo!_ " Tom screeched. His eyes glinted with a sort of animated amusement that Edgar had never seen before.

* * *

Antoine hoped for a painless death. He didn't know where he was, but the blood-traitors had come for his family. With jagged breathes, he sprinted down what he thought was a staircase, only to fall face-first onto the floor. An impossible amount of blood seemed to gush from his nose - his face felt as though it were submerged in his own blood.

His father was dead, and now, so was his mother; he didn't even try and defend her. He ran. He was a coward. A fervid, bitter taste ran through his veins. 

" _Diffindo!_ " Antoine barked, aiming at a mirror which had been conjured by one of the unseen antagonists. Although he was now blind, he could still see the mirror - he had always liked his reflection. But what happened? Standing in front of him was an ugly, useless boy, with a brassy disposition; hair untamed, eyes a listless shade of green, like the skin of a rotting apple.

" _Bombarda!"_ His dead father taught him that spell. The mirror didn't shatter. It didn't even tremble, in the slightest. The pellucid screen of his reflection mocked him. 

Antoine screamed, but it did not relieve his pain.

" _Better… than me? Are… you! You're… my slave!"_ An impossibly loud, and impossibly slow voice echoed. A sharp pain impaled his gut, and he wished his mother would carry him to his bedroom, and heal him, before letting him sleep forever.

* * *

" _Lecurinpus!"_ Tom jabbed his wand at Antoine, like an erumpent stabbing its horn at a hunter. Antoine immediately hunched over, clutching his stomach.

" _I-I'm sorry f-father- I-"_ Antoine vomited. A tumultuous gush of blood exited his mouth, and his face became an unnatural sheen of white. Edgar wanted to turn away from the sight, but found that his nerves failed to obey his thoughts.

"You should be. Look at you, on the floor. Daddy would  _curse_ you." Tom mocked. The disparity between the calmness of Tom's voice and the rabidness of his movements nauseated Edgar further.

" _Wha-"_ Antoine puked even more; in the contents of his crimson spew were what looked like chunks of flesh. The veins on his skin were more visible; whether it was because they contrasted more clearly against his skin's pallor or if it was because they were growing an inhuman shade of purple, Edgar did not know.

A hearty, high-pitched laugh rose from Tom. Borgin and Igor Karkaroff were knocked out; they looked like they were in slumber. Edgar hoped that Antoine would fall asleep soon, too.

* * *

The old, almost unfamiliar emotion of gladness warmed Antoine's cold flesh. He knew that death was immanent; soon, he could be free.

" _You… serve… me! Your… father…"_ The absurdly slow, loud voice began.

Antoine's arms must have been made from ice. The coldness in them left no other possible theory. He couldn't figure out how; in fact, he could barely construct a thought at the moment. Antoine knew his magical core was faltering, at least. Good. It meant death was soon.

He couldn't find his wand, not because he didn't know where it was, but because his shattering arms didn't obey him. He knew he would never be able to perform magic again; he was more useless than a muggle. He may as well have been a cockroach; at least that way, he could hide away from it all.

Images fleeted in front of him - was his sight returning?

A Christmas dinner with parents, both alive, their cheeks vibrant with health, the Drachenzahms, and Jürgen - who was merely a toddler.

A fourteen year old Edouard Rosier charming the small broomstick a smaller Antoine was riding, to make him think that he was in control of it. Accidental magic; one of mum's treasured teacups exploded; but mum was  _happy_.

Mum and dad arguing; dad shouldn't leave for the continent. Mum drew her wand - fire threatened to engulf dad, but he was already gone. Mum crying, mum screaming. Antoine in his bedroom, not daring to leave, and see mum's tear-stained cheeks...

"...  _would… 've… wanted you… to serve… ME!"_ The last word the voice said cracked with an agonising loudness. Antoine felt blood trickle down his ears. He couldn't wait to join mother and father.

* * *

" _Avis_!" Vivid green birds spawned out of Tom's wand; he winked at a terrified looking Avery. They began to peck at Antoine's fallen form with such a rapidity that Edgar couldn't distinguish bird from bird.

"M'moye-I-I-not-came home… th' off…" Antoine looked as though he were dying; fear and guilt wrestled within Edgar's chest.

Jürgen Drachenzahm's wand was half withdrawn, and his face was a mixed expression of despair and hatred. His eyes were tinctured red from tears; Edgar hadn't heard him cry. Alphard Black, whose gray eyes rapidly darted across the room, avoiding the sight of Antoine and Tom, placed a comforting hand on Jürgen's shoulder, his other hand patting Jürgen's wand hand.

Lestrange looked  _entertained_. A rush of fear flooded Edgar's throat as he reconsidered his opinion of the curly-haired second year.

Avery's fat face was unreadable; Edgar supposed that he was both enjoyed and disgusted by Tom's show.

" _Finite incantatem._ Oh, you think this is ending, Antoine? No, no… you are badly mistaken." The birds ceased, but Tom pointed his wand directly at Antoine's face.

" _Plesh… I cat a'moe-"_  Antoine's waxen, bloody face looked equal parts fearful and tired.

Gurganus Goyle's thickset face was expressionless; he even looked bored. Langston Mulciber tried to display his usual, noble stoicism, but Antoine could see distress flickering in his irises. Jacen Spritedust looked furiously at the floor, where a tile began to slowly crack at his accidental magic. Yaxley looked amused, as though he were watching two young cousins duel with toy wands.

The hardness that pressed against both Edgar's throat and his skull didn't seem like it would abate anytime soon.

" _Incend-"_

" _Expelliarmus!"_ Edgar shouted. Tom looked dumbfounded for a moment, as his wand flew from his hand. But then, he ran directly at Edgar.

" _Impedimenta!"_ This time, Mulciber's voice punctured through; Edgar had never heard it so unsteady.

" _Somnus!"_ For a second, Edgar had thought Mulciber dared put Tom to sleep, but he then saw that the spell was cast on Antoine, whose pallid form now looked like a corpse.

" _Stu-"_ Gurganus Goyle also had his wand withdrawn.

" _Incarcerous!"_ Mulciber was too quick for Goyle; the latter was now flat on the floor, secured by large chains.

"Edgar! Langston!  _What the hell_ do you think you're doing!?" With a manic gesture of his arm, Tom threw both Edgar and Mulciber on the floor.

"You were going to k-kill him! Look at him! There's NO way we wouldn't have-" Mulciber rushed.

"He was  _fine._ " came Tom's chilly voice.

"The potion doesn't actually do anything, Rosier's only problems were from Tom's spe-" Yaxley chimed in, his wand pointed at Mulciber, on the ground.

"No need to explain to them, Yaxley. Even if I was going to kill poor Rosier, you shouldn't have stopped me. Is this understood?"

"Y-yes." Edgar and Mulciber simultaneously stuttered.

"I will let this one slight go unpunished. Now, Edgar, Alphard - take Antoine back to our dorm."

"How-"

"You were playing Quidditch, and a bludger knocked him cold-"

"We're not sweating-"

"Return my wand, Edgar." Tom commanded. Edgar obliged without a second thought.

" _Incendio."_ Tom held his flame-tipped wand between Alphard and Edgar's heads. The searing heat made Edgar's head feel light; and the fear thundering in his stomach multiplied. He could hear the dripping and dribbling of the unrevealed pipes in the walls with frightening clarity.

Tom extinguished the flame, and slightly ruffled Alphard and Edgar's now sweat-soaked hair.

"Now, you look like good and proper  _Quidditch_  players." Tom scrunched his nose.

* * *

"He's so… light." Alphard noticed. Those were the first words he had spoken since departing  _Tom's Room_ a minute ago.

Edgar blinked. He supposed the two of them supporting Antoine from either side made him much easier to carry than if only one of them carried them.

"Alphard. I-I-. What do we do?" As Edgar asked the question, the weight of resignation pressed harder on his shoulders.

"I don't know. But Ed, now you know how I feel." Alphard replied monotonously. At least his position was sympathetic to Edgar's.

"Feel? What, I thought you were more fond of Tom-"

"Quiet it down. Whisper; someone might hear us."

"Sorry."

"But no, Ed. I didn't want him to get bullied at first but… yeah. You know. Wasn't even a few days before I found that he didn't need  _protection_."

"You seemed very happy to be with us. Tom and I, I mean, in classes and all…"

"I'm good at pretending. Need to know your place when you're the youngest sibling."

"Fair enough, Alf. But what now?"

"What can we even do?"

"Hold on.  _Fide atque fiducia._ " The door to the Slytherin common room opened. No one, aside from a pair of fourth years snogging on a couch who didn't notice them, was inside. Edgar deducted that they must've arrived at the time of dinner.

"I- I don't know. Shouldn't we t-tell someone?"

"What if Tom finds out?"

"True… and plus, we'd have to admit to all the other stuff… cheating the Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw game, all that."

"Merlin's beard. We can't do anything, Alf."

"And it's only going to get worse." Alphard dimly replied.

"I- I don't even know if I trust him. Why did he tell Jürgen about this… potion thing, but not us? I thought we were closer to him."

"Jürgen was crying. I think it was meant as some sort of test for him. Tom t-trusts our loyalty."

"Still, hard to feel  _loyal_  after this, yeah?"

"Agreed. We can't do anything, though."

* * *

Langston Mulciber hadn't thought it was possible for an eleven year old wizard to know so many  _dark arts curses_ , but Tom Riddle wasn't one who failed to amaze.

While his stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought of Rosier's cadaverous looking body, Langston's calm prevailed. He knew that Riddle would be the wizard to define an era. Langston would be at his side. It wasn't his place to question the former's methods.

He was thankful Riddle hadn't bought up his obstruction during his tormenting of Rosier; Langston genuinely thought that Riddle, who, although otherwise the consummate budding wizard, was prone to outbursts of sadistic anger, and was just on the verge of  _killing_ Antoine Rosier. Perhaps Riddle realised this in retrospect, too, which was why Langston was let off with nothing more than a reprimand.

"What about Borgin and Karkaroff?" Dru asked, as their small entourage comprised of himself, Lestrange, Yaxley, Riddle and Langston proceeded to the Slytherin first year dorms. Langston didn't care about Borgin and Karkaroff; he wondered where Jacen Spritedust was.

"They'll be fine. Maybe slightly on edge, but nothing requiring healing. In fact, their large doses of the potion knocked 'em out quickly and painlessly, compared with Rosier, at least. We'll grab 'em out of the room later; let 'em rest a bit for now." Replied Yaxley's cool voice.

As they reached the door of the first year boys' dorm, Yaxley withdrew his wand, and, after a few movements and a set of incandescent blue lines making a few pleasant chiming noises, they entered. Edgar Nott and Alphard Black were crouching over Antoine Rosier's chalky, dormant form. In spite of its numerous purple bruises and red gashes, Rosier's head looked impossibly small.

"How is he?" Riddle asked. If Langston didn't know any better, he would've thought that the tone of sympathy in Riddle's voice was genuine.

"He's… not awakening, but he's breathing." Nott replied.

"But Tom, what do we tell the professors? Don't think Rosier c-can show up to class in this state..." Black asked.

"We better heal him as quickly as we can, then. For now, we'll say that a bludger hit his head, and he is suddenly feeling sad again, about his father's death. But most of all, we'll say that he doesn't wish to receive visitors, other than us."

"I'll grab 'Mona. She wants to be a healer, and she interned at St. Mungo's last summer." said Yaxley, who then promptly left.

"Look - Tom. I'm sorry about disarming you- I-I thought you-" Nott stammered.

"As long as you don't do it again, Ed, I won't punish you." Riddle replied, his voice as smooth as a cool evening breeze.

"I won't, Tom."

Riddle paced over to Rosier, crouched at his bedside, and gently patted Rosier's forehead, as though he were a mother soothing her sickly son. Lestrange smirked at the sight. Nott and Black uncomfortably shifted.

"What about Mrs. Rosier, Riddle?" Dru asked.

"We'll write to her about a bludger, and Antoine's upset feelings over his dead daddy."

"What if she visits, or asks 'ol Sluggie for Antoine to get out of school? She could be pretty scary, you know."

"Then you will see to it that it doesn't happen." Riddle replied, sharply.

"Um. How?" Dru replied.

"Alphard, find Jürgen and bring him here. Jürgen knows Mrs. Rosier's address the continent; we will prevent any owls from delivering the news to her."

Black left without hesitation. A moment after he left, Yaxley returned, and in his arm, was the beautiful form of Desdemona Greengrass, whose bored expression wildly grimaced as soon as her striking, green eyes landed on the head of Antoine Rosier.

"You boys! In the name of Circe -"

"Calm down, 'Mona. Just see what you can do to fix up Rosier." Yaxley assured, soothingly. A memory of the two passionately snogging in the common room last year flitted through Langston's mind. He wondered if they intended on getting married soon.

"I- what?! I told you stupid boys. I  _warned_ you not to start more trouble very clearly and now! Merlin's beard. Corb, dear, look at him! The poor boy  _needs_ to go to the hospital wing-"

"Certainly not." Yaxley's voice was firm.

"But-"

"You heard me, 'Mona. Don't talk back or ask questions, for your own good."

"Corb-"

"Just heal the damn boy, witch."

Greengrass glowered at Yaxley; Yaxley winked back; Greengrass rolled her eyes, and then kneeled over at Rosier's bedside. Langston thought her figure was quite pleasing to look at from behind; more so than any of the third-year Slytherin girls.

" _Reparifors. Tergeo... Episkey... Vulnera Sanentur... Anapneo. Ferula. Episkey. Episkey."_ Greengrass incanted in a song-like manner, her wand movements graceful. Rosier's face actually seemed largely healed, to Langston's surprise. His skin, however, was still still the deathly pallor as it was before, and there were creases in his cheeks which almost looked like wrinkles.

"That's about the extent of healing wandwork I can do. He'll need blood-replenishing potions, nourishment-supplementing potions, and, it seems, magical trauma placation potions. While the first two can be ordered from Pippin's Apothecary with, uhh, two or three days for delivery, the third one can't be, unless we go through the paperwork." Greengrass spoke in a rushed voice, perhaps in effort to distract herself from the morbidity of the situation.

"Why can't we buy a magical trauma plate on potion?" Lestrange asked.

" _Placation_ potion. We'd need to fill out ministry paperwork; can't buy anything too powerful without paperwork since nowadays they're suspecting that some of Grindelwald's wizards are buying stuff from over here and smuggling it in for their cause." Greengrass clarified.

"Great. Couldn't we just lie for the paperwork though?" Lestrange replied.

"They're very tight about this, to prevent smugglers. Don't think we can. Even if we did, the time it would take would be too long; weeks, potentially months. You'll have to brew it yourselves."

"Let Lydia, Yaxley and I brew it. Plus, we could just steal blood-replenishing and nourishment-supplementing potions from Madam Calderon. Old bird wouldn't even notice." Langston offered.

"Oh, 'Mona's helping brewing too, for sure -" Yaxley freely proposed.

"Definitely not! That-"

"Didn't say you had a choice, my sweet."

"Fine."

* * *

"Ooh, the sleepyhead's awake." Came a female voice.

Antoine recognised the fuzzy outlines of Iban and Jürgen; he could not discern who the third figure, an older brunette girl, was. His head felt heavy on his shoulders, yet also infinitely light within. Although his body was covered in a cold sweat, he felt as though he was burning. He realised he was in his bed, in the Slytherin first year boys' dormitory. He tried to get the sheets off him, but his arms barely had any energy to receive his command.

"Ant, it's me. Jürgen. I'm- I'm sorry. For everything. Say something, p-please."

Jürgen Drachenzahm, Antoine's best friend - Antoine's childhood friend, and the boy who had been complicit in orchestrating his torture, was asking for him to speak. Antoine didn't say anything not because he spurned Jürgen, but he was simply too tired to either hold a grudge or enact forgiveness.

"He's probably too tired to talk." The female voice informed.

"Are you s-sure he'll be alright, Greengrass? Look at him! I've known Ant before either of us did accidental magic. I've  _never_ seen him like this! Never!" Jürgen's fractured voice said.

"He'll be fine - he's just very tired right now. I think you two should leave, give him some space. I'll take care of him." Greengrass replied. Antoine vaguely recalled a brittle female prefect casting a silencing charm on him.

The two boys left. Antoine coughed.

"Sssh. It's alright, dear. You're safe here. Don't worry." Greengrass's figure loomed over him; she seemed impossibly large, like a giant, but her face was delicate and aroused Antoine's desire to be comforted. His whole dormitory felt abnormally large; as though he were sitting in the great hall, and looking at the ceiling.

Greengrass's gentle hand caressed Antoine's chin. He closed his eyes, and smoothly withdrew into the realm of the unconscious.

* * *

Antoine woke to the sound of snipping; a noise reminiscent of when they had to trim the vane off the shafts of feathers, in potons. He felt stronger than he had been a few hours ago when Greengrass tended to him. The sound stopped, and he sat up.

He reflexively tried to caress the curls of his hair, but as he made the motion, his hand passed through thin air.

"Hello, Antoine."

Tom Riddle was sitting on Antoine's bed, his wand drawn, focused on a levitating pair of scissors. Antoine looked around; his hair was all over his bedsheets. He should've felt anger, sadness, or even fear; his exuberant, wavy hair was one of his most prized possessions. Now, it was gone, but he simply didn't care.

"I always found your fiddling with your hair rather annoying. Lie back down; Greengrass said you shouldn't sit up." Without waiting for Antoine to oblige the request, Tom simply waved his wand, and Antoine was pushed back, flat on his bed.

"You need to drink a mouthful of both these potions every two hours. One's to substitute for food, but it smells bad. I bought you some leftovers from dinner, instead."

Tom placed a large bundle of parchment onto Antoine's bed. Unfolding the parchment, Tom took a sausage and a piece of toast.

"Open your mouth."

Antoine did as he was bid; he had no reason not to. The food didn't taste bad, but it wasn't pleasing at all. Tom also pressed a potion containing a thick, viscous blue liquid against Antoine's mouth. Drinking it, he felt a surge of energy go through his body.

"I'm here to help you, Antoine. I help those loyal to me; I trust that, from now, you will be loyal?

"Yes." Antoine replied monotonously.

"Good.  _Evanesco."_ The hair clippings scattered about Antoine's bed disappeared.

* * *

Lydia Cotterill had not felt this panicked since her first day of school, when she thought professor Dumbledore would find that Tom Riddle had  _stabbed_ her.

She wished Tom would stab her palm with a pin again, just so that she'd know he still desired her attention; she hadn't seen him all day long. She stayed late into dinner, too anxious to move. Mulce, Jace, half her year's boys, and Lestrange were all missing. Mulce and Alphard Black had come a while later, both looking uncommonly tired; her inquiries as to Tom's location were met with dismissal.

After spending twenty minutes in the library looking for Tom to no avail, she decided to return to the common room; not to look again, as she had twice there earlier, but to retire to her bed and wallow there instead.

" _Fide atque fiducia."_ She entered the Slytherin common room, giving a cursory look around, before heading to the first year girls' dorm. Entering, she headed directly for her bed, which she  _fell_ on.

"Where have you been, Cotterill?" The reproachful voice of Lucretia Black asked.

"You don't care, so why ask?" Lydia wasn't in the mood for another session of bickering with her dorm-mates. Apart from Anastasia Dolohova, they all seemed to feel the need to underhandedly slight her as often as they could. Perhaps it was because Lydia rarely gave them attention.

"Cotterill seems touchy today. Her bad blood is showing." Walburga Black sneered.

"I'm a pureblood. Now, why don't you two go back to pressing your noses against last week's copy of  _Witch Weekly_?"

"Purebloods can have bad blood. The Cotterills are  _nothing_ compared with us." Lucretia pressed, smirking.

"Oh, except  _Tom Riddle_ likes  _me_ and doesn't even  _talk_ to you. That's what this is about, isn't it? You're  _jealous!_  You're ugly and dumb and  _jealous_ because Tom knows I'm  _better_ than you!"

"How dare you!"

"I'm not scared of you."

"You'll regret that, I'm telling my brother!"

"I'll get Tom to curse your stupid brother!"

"My brother's not scared of Tom. He's in  _fifth year_."

"Your brother's stupid, then!"

"Can you girls please  _SHUT UP!_ " Anastasia Dolohova's voice chimed in. She seemed to have affected the common room into a few seconds of peace; after all, she was the best of the five at almost every subject, except potions, which was Lydia's specialty. She was a head taller than the rest of them too.

"Good night, Ana. Oh, Lucretia? Stay  _jealous_." Lydia huffed and stormed out the room, slamming the door.

She was sick of having to live with the two Black  _princesses_ ; although Dolohova was better at her than everything except potions, Lydia was better than Lucretia and Walburga at  _everything_. Yet, in spite all that, they'd still scrunch their noses at her as though she was a mudblood. Lydia supposed that having the favour of Tom Riddle, who was perhaps the most desirable boy alive, garnered resentment.

The common room was relatively empty, and had a strange charm this late at night when the chandeliers and lamps went out, with only the fireplaces and candles presenting a cordial green sheen on the furniture. Apart from two snogging couples, the only other company Lydia found in the common room was Jace and Mulce, both of who were propped in armchairs facing the same green fireplace. They were intently absorbed in conversation. Lydia smiled, and walked towards them.

"Jace, you realise Rosier basically be -"

"Hi Jace; hi Mulce."

"Evening, Lid."

"How are you, Lid?"

Lydia felt slightly guilty about interjecting their conversation. Her curiosity also itched at whatever they had to say about Antoine Rosier, but she did not press.

"Um. Are we allowed to sleep in the common room? Rookwood didn't say, during the introduction…"

"We are. Why, have a row with one of your dorm mates?" Jacen asked, in a familiar, sympathetic tone.

"Yeah. Could I just lie down anywhere? On that sofa, maybe?" Lydia pointed at a large, black sofa a few paces behind the fireplace the two boys were facing.

"Sure, Lid. I'll conjure you a blanket and a pillow." Jacen replied, giving a weary smile.

"I'll be retiring to the dorm now, Jace. Let's continue our chat there. Goodnight, Lid." Mulce chimed in.

"'Night, Mulce."

Jacen wordlessly conjured a large, green cushion and a fluffy black blanket, and levitated both onto the sofa. Lydia smiled; Jacen had always been strangely and conveniently precocious at housework charms.

"So, what happened?" Jacen asked, concerned. The dim light of the fireplace cast a half-silhouette over his face; the likeness between Jacen Spritedust and his father, also Lydia's uncle, Maurice Spritedust, became clear.

"Lucretia Black was jealous of me spending time with Tom. I couldn't find him today, and she teased -"

"Lid -"

"- me. She insulted the family too. Not the Spritedusts, but dad's side. It really annoys me that I'm actually better -"

"Lydia!"

"Huh?"

"I remembered; I  _need_ to talk to you about Tom Riddle." Jace's voice sounded abnormally severe.

"What's the matter? I haven't seen him all day; is he alright?"

"You need to stay away from him."

"Where is - WHAT? Stay away from Tom Riddle? Why?! What-" Lydia was incredulous; it'd been Jacen who had first suggested she get close to Riddle.

"Don't shout. Look, you haven't seen the things he's capable of. The boy has  _issues_ \- I want you to keep your distance -" Jacen's voice was barely above a whisper. Lydia huffed.

"Capable of? Tom's a great wizard; are you jealous, too?!"

"No! I mean it'd be nice if I could do what he did, but I'm saying that he's  _dark_ , you -"

" _Dark?_  Mum always said dark and light magic is a matter of perspecting."

" _Perspective._ " Jace corrected. "No, not the magic itself, but Riddle's… personality. Look, I don't want you to get hurt- just keep your distance from him. For your own good, but also for myself and your mother, alright?"

"Stop trying to  _protect me,_ Jace. Tom likes me, I know it. So… you saw him do  _dark_ magic today, but he didn't let me see? That just means he wanted to protect my innocence." Lydia's defiant voice complained.

"If you saw what he did today, you wouldn't want to be near him anymore." Jacen spoke, barely audible.

"And what did he do, hmm?"

"I can't say. But just know that he's  _dark_ -"

"Stop saying  _dark_! You sound stupid!"

Just as Jace was about to reply, the doors of the common room opened, and Tom Riddle made his entrance. Jacen sighed.

"Lydia; Jacen. Good evening."

"Night, more like. I'm off. Goodnight Tom. Goodnight Lid. Remember to stay safe." Jace kept his gaze on Lydia for a few seconds before slowly departing for his dorm.

"Goodnight, Jacen." Riddle replied, quizzically.

"Night, Jace." Lydia said.

"Stay safe? What was that about?"

"Oh, I'm sleeping here tonight. Had an argument with Lucretia. Jace wants to make sure I remember my blanket or something." Lydia lied.

"I see." Tom Riddle's half-silhouetted form was  _handsome_ in the glow of the fireplace.

"Stay with me, tonight?" Before Tom could give an answer, Lydia's hand clasped his, dragging him onto the couch.

"Alright, Lydia. I suppose it's deserved, as you haven't seen me all day." Tom smiled at her. His hand tightened; he was in a  _strongly_ physical mood today. Lydia's smile pressed her cheeks against her eyes.

"Where were you? Why didn't you take me? You know how I  _adore_ your magic -"

"It would be bad for a girl to see such things." Lydia guessed right in what she said to Jace earlier; Tom was being  _noble_.

"Okay, Tom. Let's tuck in, then. You must be tired."

"Right you are, Lydia. Goodnight."

That night, Lydia Cotterill slept as peacefully as a baby, as her limbs interlocked with Tom Riddle's, to the slow thrum of the Slytherin common room's fireplaces.

* * *

"Family's going to Sumeria. Thankfully it's cold this time of the year, over there." Timotheus Weasley said.

"Sumeria doesn't exist anymore. In fact it hasn't existed for what, four millennia? It's  _Iraq_  now; actually, they achieved independence from the muggle Brits in 1930." Charles informed.

"The muggle Brits ruled over Sumeria?" Weasley's incredulous voice sounded.

" _Iraq_. And yes, they did; the muggle Brits also ruled-"

"But the Persian Ministry of Magic governs Sumeria!"

"The Muggles call that  _Iran_ nowadays; and what… they-"

"Muggle brits are crazy." Mathilde Smackhammer noted.

"We also rule over India-"

" _India?!_  The Indian ministry has  _twenty_ times as many aurors as we do… not to mention their magic is-"

"Yeah, but it seems like they're rather otherworldly and don't care much for their muggle counterparts, then." Charles slightly scowled.

"Well,  _I'm_ seeing the Heidelberg Harriers go against Puddlemere United. You know, a Puddlemere scout actually approached me last year, and offered me a place in their cadet program. I refused, though." Smackhammer wistfully noted.

"Why?"

"Oh, Charles, has she  _not told you_?" Weasley's exasperated voice noted.

"Thankfully not… I think?" Charles blinked.

"I'm going to become an auror. If it were any other era, I would've  _gladly_ taken up the Puddlemere cadetship, but with Grindelwald and his cronies spreading through the continent like an  _outbreak_ of dragon pox, it would be cowardice to  _not_ take up wands against him." Smackhammer's passionate voice almost sounded rehearsed.

"That's… very noble."  _Very brazen and Gryffindor-like_ , Charles privately thought.

"And you, Weasley? What do you want to do?" Charles asked.

"Well, there's not much choice, is there?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, my girl's going to become an Auror. What kind of wizard would I be if I let her fight in the front-wards while I stayed behind, in safety?"

 _Damned Gryffindors_ , Charles thought.

"What about you Charles?"

"What am I doing for Christmas, or my future?"

"Either. Both."

"Stay at Hogwarts like every other Christmas. Plus, you guys want me to get close to Riddle and learn about him, right? Bet he's staying as well; doubt he'd want to go back to the orphanage -"

"What's an  _orphanage?_ "

"Muggle kids go there when their parents are dead. Live together, have a single caretaker. Not known for their great reputations."

"What about relatives? Or even their parent's friends?" Smackhammer's incredulous voice asked. Charles had forgotten how integrated Pureblood society was; the notion of an  _orphan_ was almost impossible for them to conceive.

"Dead, too. Or simply unfit, or too distant to care. Anyway, I don't have many ambitions; I guess I'm waiting to see how I lean in the upcoming few years before I decisively say anything."

"That's fair; fourth year is too young, anyway."

* * *

The burly form of Gurganus Goyle shadowed Charles in his seat, as though to stop him from arising. Facing him was the composed, immaculate figure of Tom Riddle.

"I trust you will be staying over Christmas,  _Charles_?"

"Right you are. Tom.'

"Good, good. I believe you have already talked to the Gryffindors; what have you found out?"

"Smackhammer and Weasley, self-righteous like the Gryffindors they are, want to become aurors. I believe we can sabotage them."


	9. Christmas Letters

_14th December 1938_

_Dear mom,_

_I'm staying at Hogwarts because Tom is too. He doesn't want to spend Christmas with his muggles. And I don't want him to feel lonely. The other night, I_ **[...**   **Lydia had scribbled over the following sentence; not a single word remained distinguishable; Lyneue Cotterill grimaced at the letter]**   _Tom, a 4th year Ravenclaw named Charles who is smart and who Tom likes and me will go to Diagon Alley to buy Christmas gifts soon._

_Alphard and Edgar were acting a bit weird especially around Tom the last few days. I asked them about it. They said nothing was going on, but I know they are hiding something. I might ask Tom about it and I think Tom noticed it too but he doesn't like it when I ask serious things. One time I asked if his parents sent him to the Orfanage, which is the muggle place he lives in. He looked angry and didn't speak nice to me for hours after._

_The wiggenweld potion me and Tom brewed was the only one Slughorn decided was good enough to give to the hospital wing. Its the fifth potion me and Tom brewed that is in Madam Calderon's shelve's._

_Antoine Rosier has been sick for a few days. No one knows what happened to him. Tom says hes suddenly sad about his dad dying, cause it happened two years ago from the day he started being sad. I hope he is ok soon. He is also staying over Christmas and I hope I see him. In total theres nine Slytherins staying over including me._

_Please owl back to me soon, cause I need to know what I should gift Anastasia Dolohova. Tom said that I should give her a self correcting quill because shes neat, but she also likes to control everything she does. A self correcting quill controls how you write for you. Ana might not like that, I think._

_Igor Karkarof is also staying for Christmas. I think his parents don't want him to go back to Bulgaria cause it's not safe there. He also acts weird around Tom like the others. He is getting his friends honeydukes. Maybe I will get some for Ana if I can owl honeydukes to send them neat._

_Your daughter,_

_Lydia_

* * *

_14th December 1938_

_Jay-Jay_

_I have no choice but to call you Jay-Jay since all term you have called me Lid._

_Anyway I'm sorry for shouting at you. But are you sorry for butting in to my affairs? Too bad you're at Spritedust tower now and I'm at Hogwarts. I'm keeping Tom company, he seems more relaxed but also more sad this time of the year. I learned his birthday is on new years eves._

_With love,_

_Lydia_

* * *

_16th December 1938_

_Alphard,_

_This is the first letter I've wrote that is not to an adult or a cousin. Sorry if it looks weird. I think you have way more cousins than me. I remember you showed me a drawing of your family tree. When I write on parchment, it makes me think of class essays and all that dull stuff you know?_

_The Sayers came around today. Satyros got a Cleansweep 3 for Christmas and he let me ride on it. When I did, I was not used to the speed compared with our family brooms and fell off. Dad cast a finite on me, otherwise I would have to have drunk skelegrow. Horrible stuff skelegrow is. When I was 9 and my cousin Leon pushed me of a terrace at their manor I had to drink it. Tasted like soil and rotten vegetables and professor Binns's sweat. We played 2 verse 1. Me and Sabia against her brother. He won of course..._

_Sabia was fun to play with. I think shes coming to Hogwarts next year. Probably Slytherin like us because Mr and Miss Sayer are both Slytherin. But I don't like her Puffskein which spat at me... why can't she get a niffler like a normal witch?_

_I had to get rid of some gnomes in the garden. They ate mums bluebells and she was angry, so of course dad, me and farbey had to get rid of them. I wanted to cast the blinding curse Yaxley showed us but, when I was about to dad got angry and even disarmed me. He was really mad and asked me who showed me that curse. I lied and said I read it in a book lying around in the common room. I thought he would be proud cause I know his rooms library is full of curse books. In the end we just used incarcerous on them and had farbey apparate them somewhere far away, one by one. Boring cause they could have been fun to test some of the other curses Yaxley showed us._

_Also, I asked mum if she could write to your mum and ask to have our floo's open to each other. Mum said yes but she's waiting for your mum to agree. Dad said the warding can take up to a few days._

_Regards,_

_Edgar Nott_

* * *

_1_ _7th December 1938_

_Lydia,_

_You are still a child; please remember this fact if Tom Riddle tries to get_ _**intimate** _ _with you. Jacen has informed me of some of the finer details of your relationship, particularly of that which you had omitted in your last letter to me. Furthermore, he has told me some troubling tales concerning Riddle's behaviour at school. I firmly suggest that you keep a respectable distance from him, while not arousing his suspicion._

_I hope you don't get upset at Jacen for raising his concerns with me. He loves and cares for you as one would for their little sister; I know this, as he treats you the same way Maurice treated me, when we were children._

_Your father and I are very proud of your results across all subjects. You truly have the best of both Spritedust and Cotterill blood trickling through your veins._

_If you are still unsure of what to gift Dolohova, you could simply give her both chocolates and a self-correcting quill; that's what the dozen of sickles enclosed in this large envelope are for._

_I have given your foul-smelling familiar an exhaustive bath. It reeked of owl droppings; I will write to Headmaster Dippet regarding the state of the Hogwarts' Owlery._

_Best regards,_

_Your loving mother_

* * *

_19th December 1938_

_Edgar,_

_This is my first letter too. I never wrote to cousins except for Christmas cards before cause all the Black Propertys are flooed to each other. We're spending Christmas at uncle Circinus's place near Kings Cross Station. 12 Grim old Place or something. I hate it hear cause the air smells bad and there's nothing to do compared with at the Manor. Uncle Circinus's new elf Kreacher is weird to. Ever since Walburga said something nice to her it, it follows her around when it has nothing else to do. I miss Hiskey now._

_It sounds like you want to kiss Sabia Sayer. Is she pretty? If you do let me be the grooms wizard for your wedding, OK? Cygnus asked me if I had an eye for any girl and I said no and he teased me. Phineas too. Phineas was Head Boy last year... I don't understand why they are all crazy about girls, but they said I will get it soon. I don't think so. All the girls are annoying or weird in our year._

_Also, good that you asked mum to ask my mum. She said yes and dad and your dad are working on the warding now. Looks like pretty boring magic really but dad say's it's really dificult. Dad told me it will be ready on Christmas day but I should visit you or you me on the 26th because Christmas day itself is family only which is dumb cause I like you more than all my cousins._

_Grim old place doesn't have pests. We had an ashwinder or two because Uncle Circinus falls asleep with the fireplace, on but even I can put them out. I even miss the gnomes back at the Manor._

_Anyway, let me know if you want to come to me or if you want me to come to you. Can't wait to see you and I think you will like the present I got you._

_Regards,_

_Alphard_

* * *

_20th December 1938_

_Lid,_

_Spritedust tower is fine just the way it is. Waking up to jumping out your window on a comet 140 every morning sure beats waking up to Mulce's stiff arse combing his hair and Avery drooling on the carpet._

_Your parents came over the other day, you know. Your parents vs mine in chaser doubles Quidditch. The Cotterills won. I guess my folks are getting old. Dad used to be chaser for Slytherin, you know? He was quite good back in the day, or so I'm told._

_Mum made some spinach and feta pies, your favourite. She forgot you weren't coming over so I ate them instead._

_I guess it'd be unfair of me to tell you to stay away from Riddle when I'm probably going to be around him often for the next year, I think. Just be careful to not get hurt, understand?_

_Love,_

_Jacen Spritedust_

* * *

_20th December 1938_

_Tom,_

_I heard Lydia is staying with you over Christmas. I hope she doesn't nag you to Hell and back._

_Good luck. Let me know if you need anything._

_Regards,_

_Edgar Nott_

* * *

_22nd December 1938_

_Mother,_

_I'm not a little girl! I'm. not. A BABY. Anymore! I am sick of Jace, you and everyone else telling me that Tom is bad for me like he's one of Grindelwalds HIT WIZARDS out to get me. In fact you don't even need to worry about Riddle getting imtimate with me because he DOESN'T WANT TO and I want to more than he does. Some days we hold hands or our legs are touching when we study together but other days HE wants space to himself when I always want to share it with him._

_Stop worrying, please for the love of Salazar Slytherin. It makes me so embarassed._

_Thanks for the sickles. I did buy Ana both the Honeydukes and the quill. I gave the change to Tom since he doesn't have any money to buy presents with._

_I don't like it when you wash Bezoar. His feathers were fluffy before but now they are thin and stick to his skin and he looks weird. Tom says he looks weird too._

_I wish Tom would spend less time with Charles because Charles acts weird._

_Love,_

_Lydia_

* * *

_23rd December 1938_

_Alf,_

_Could you come to my place? My mum really wants to see you. She's all excited about me making friends with a Black. You can bet that she will get the elves to cook up something extra extra special for us. Plus I could get Farbey to sneak back a gnome or two for us to hex. Farbey likes it when I ask him to sneak stuff in. I could get Farbey to sneak us some cookies and mango flavoured pepperup potions so we can play gobstones or sneak out flying at night._

_I don't like Walburga. And I'm not surprised if the best husband she could find is a house elf. You know she was really mean to Lydia? Oh and don't tell me to marry Lydia cause clearly she's going to be Lydia Riddle. No doubt about it, imagine there wedding. I think she's the most pretty of us first year's girls though. Anastasia Dolohova creeps me out a bit. Her eyes are big when she looks at you and it feels weird. Also Lydia owled me and maybe she owled you too but in case she didn't, she said Tom's birthday is on the 31st. Kind of sad cause a lazy friend would give Tom one thing for his birthday and Christmas. But we're good friends. I can ask dad to apparate us to Diagon Alley to buy something._

_We have ashwinders sometimes. Farbey likes to pour water on them, the crazy house elf he is. When he does he is so happy he makes elfy cheering sounds. I'm looking forward to the present you have for me. I think you will like mine too._

_Regards,_

_Edgar_

* * *

_25th December 1938_

_Lydia,_

_Merry Christmas! I hope you find your presents gratifying._

_Spare your poor mother from her daughter's fearsome wrath. I know how it feels; I remember the first time my heart called out for a boy, too. I simply ask that you collect yourself, and try think about Tom Riddle in the rational,_ _ **Slytherin**_   _manner that I know my daughter is capable of._

_I hope you were not consciously withholding Bezoar from savouring a bath or a shower. If that were the case, my letter to Headmaster Dippet would have been very embarrassing indeed._

_Festive regards,_

_Your loving mother_

* * *

_25th December 1938_

_Dear Edgar,_

_Merry Christmas, my trustworthy friend._

_I thank you for your gifts. I hope you enjoy mine. The most Lydia can do to me is nag, nothing more. On the other hand, I could do a lot to her, if I wanted._

_Although Hogwarts' library isn't lacking in the topic, I want you to see if you could bring books on the history and lineages of magical families to school, from your family library._

_Regards,_

_Tom R._

* * *

_28th December 1938_

_Jay-stupid-Jay_

_Since you find it fun to tell me to be careful I'll do the same. Be careful when you're JUMPING OUT THE WINDOW after waking up every morning. I would hate to see my nagging cousin fall to his death cause his sleepy head couldn't control a broom._

_Since you're so obsessed with my friendship with Riddle (ooh are you jealous? But Jace we're cousins. You can't love me. We aren't like the Blacks. Walburga can love Alphard. I hope Alphard gets someone better though) I'll tell you what we have been doing. This way you know he doesn't and won't hurt me. OK?_

_Tom always wakes up before me. On Christmas day I tried to surprise him waking up earlier and even used the alarm charm to wake me up at 6 am. The charm Mulce taught me. BUT when I did he was already in the common room reading a book._

_So yes. Every morning I wake up Tom's in the common room reading a book. Before he would be there in school robes but it looked so weird, so I got him some green silk pyjamas for Christmas. He wears those in the mornings now and it makes me soooo happy. I think it makes him less shy with touching too._

_Also you know Antoine Rosier? How he was sick and all? He's out now but he scares me. He follows Tom like a stray niffler. His hair is short and he looks really thin. He also doesn't talk much. He mumbles a lot and isn't like the Antoine Rosier I know. He ignores his hair! Antoine Rosier's hair!! It's li_ _ke if you suddenly ignored your broom! Even more than that! Antoine Rosier's hair!_

_At breakfast there's only one table instead of four. The weirdo Ravenclaw mudblood that Tom's so fond of for knowing a lot sits with us. Charles Lynch I mean. He sits with Tom, me, Igor Karkarof and Antoine. Tom's eating a LOT. I remember when he just came to Hogwarts he did put a lot on his plate every time and never finish it but he's eating a lot now. He's taller than me now. Remember when I was a lot taller than him?_

_Even when he's full after breakfast he wraps some food in parchment, to take back to the common room. At first I thought it was weird. But it's nice to snack a little through the morning. I think I'm getting a bit fat..._

_We go to the library a lot. I'm still amazed by how patient Tom is, he can read for hours upon hours upon hours upon hours. Sometimes I wish other younger Slytherin girls stayed over Christmas because I feel lonely. I talk to Karkarof sometimes but he doesn't like me and Antoine is just too strange and quiet nowadays. On Christmas we went out and had a snowball fight. Tom cast the sixth year duplycation charm on a snowball and drenched me in snow. I had to drink three pepperup potions to feel better after._

_I don't like Charles Lynch but admit that his magic is good. In the snowball fight he made and controlled a small snow storm. He was the only one who stood a chance against Tom._

_For lunch and dinner Tom also eats so much. I don't know how his stomach stands it. Some days we go outside and practice spells. Actually, he mostly just teaches me. I'm learning fast from him. He doesn't hurt me at all but he teaches me better than all the teachers combined... I won't say what I've learned cause I want to show you when you're hear._

_At night  Tom, Antoine, Karkarof and me gather around a fireplace and talk, play gobstones or chess. Karkarof's Bulgarian chess set is even more brutal than the one Mulce bought you for Christmas a few years ago. When the King is checkmated instead of pushing him over the other piece casts a green spell at him and blows him up. Two times in the past week and a bit me and Tom slept together on a couch like that night. I think he likes to hug me more and more tightly. I can't imagine him hurting me ever, so STOP worrying Jace or you're just as bad as mum._

_With Love,_

_Lydia_

* * *

_29th December 1938_

_Ed,_

_That night was sooo fun. Mum would never let us keep sweetened potions at the manor. Says they're bad for your liver! Farbey is nicer than Hiskey too. Mum hits Hiskey too much._

_Your mum is much more nicer than mine. But your dad reminds me of my dad. Always babbling on about this or that thing about family. He seems to be crazy about his pureblood direcktory book. I know you're like me Ed. I mean how you don't care much about the blood stuff. Isn't it weird how everything is? I mean we're with Tom and everyone around Tom cares so much. Like Jürgen, Ranulfus (or how ever you spell it) Lestrange, Mulciber are crazy about blood. They are already dads basicaly. No one even knows what Tom is though._

_I think we need to be careful not to talk about the Rosier thing, or look weird at Tom. Remember we talked about this and we found out there's no choice but to go through with it yeah? Tom asked me to bring books about magical families from the Black library. I don't think he knows how much we have. If I even bought every one in ten books we have it would not fit with my stuff._

_Anyway mate I'll see you back at school. How many of the Christmas essays have you done? I have transfiguration herbology and potions left. All the others you can copy on the train yeah?_

_Regards,_

_Alf_


	10. Christmas Letters Part II

_14th December 1938_

_Mother,_

_I will be staying at Hogwarts over Christmas. All is well._

_Your son,_

_Antoine_

* * *

_15th December 1938_

_Mother,_

_I will be staying at Hogwarts over the break. I'm still topping my year in every subject. Don't trouble yourself with getting me a gift for Christmas._

_Very truly yours,_

_Charles_

* * *

_15th December 1938_

_Dear Thorell,_

_Brother, I hope the best for you and your noble cause. There are one hundred galleons in the satchel that should come with this letter. If it is not there, the blood-traitors have taken them. Mother and father, unfortunately, still yearn for your return. They are hypocrites for supporting Grindelwald's cause while being unwilling to make sacrifices for it. Still, they are healthy and well._

_Mum's taken to charming the flutes and harps about the manor again. She sings to them, too. When dad comes home she stops singing, but for most the day I have to endure through it. She shouted at me when I tried to go into your room. Said that she wants you to come back and find it the way you left it. She renews the dust-impeding wards at your door every day before sunrise. Always wakes me up. It's mental._

_I'm still the highest in my year in Defense_   _Against the Dark Arts and Charms. I'm in the top five for else other subject. Professor Slughorn has invited me to his elusive 'Slug Club'. Professor Clearwater's told me I should begin reading fourth year content._

 _The boy of my previous letters, Tom Marvolo Riddle, does not fail to continue to amaze. With the support of myself and a fifth year called Corban Yaxley, we found the traitors among those who said to support him. For their disloyalty, Tom proved the strength of his magic. He cast curses that I hadn't heard of, and didn't look guilty about it_ _ **at all**_.  _He truly is the one great wizard in a hundred years. I suspect that one day he will perhaps become the strongest free wizard. Second only to Grindelwald himself, of course._

_There is, however, an issue. Tom is obviously not a mudblood, but he does not know of his magical heritage. I think that he has done some personal research, but to little avail, maybe owing to a lack of knowing where to look. Perhaps you have some ideas in this regard?_

_Once again, I hope the best for you and the noble struggle in which you sacrifice for. If you are too pressed on time to reply to this message, then it is fine. I understand. However, if you find the time, I would very much appreciate a letter from you._   _You are, and always will be my model of a wizard._

_Affectionate regards,_

_Your brother, Langston_

_P.S I don't have a girlfriend yet. Stop asking me this every time you write to me._

* * *

_15th December 1938_

_Tony,_

_I hope you get better soon. Please know that I'm still your friend. It's still me, Jürgen. I wish it could have happened any way other than this. I'm really sorry._

_I'm home alone (mother is with dad in Germany) now but I'm seeing Iban's mum tomorrow and your mum on saturday. I wish you were here. Remember we planned all this long ago? To go home during Christmas, relax. Play Quidditch. I mean things have changed now. No good trying to remember all the old stuff._

_If you wanted me to tell your mum anything I can't. Tom won't let me. This is how things are now. I know we will get used to it, and come out better. We did before. We'll do it again, yeah?_

_Your friend, always_

_Jürgen_

* * *

_15th December 1938_

_Antoine,_

_Although I have given Tom the task of ensuring you properly follow your potions regimen, there are still a couple of important things for you to remember._

_No matter how hard Tom Riddle says you should, do NOT:_

_-Fly on a broomstick, not even to hover._

_-Run, or even jog to the point your heart-rate feels elevated._

_-Drink or eat anything really cold (cool water is fine, but avoid things like chilled pumpkin juice, ice cream etc)._

_-Drink or eat anything really hot (warm tea is your limit, OK?)._

_-Eat beans or peas (they will react badly with some of the potions)._

_-Stay up too late (past midnight) otherwise your unrested body won't be able to ingest various potions properly._

_Don't show Tom this letter as it might give him the idea just to do these things, simply because he can. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy your break and wish you a speedy recovery._

_Kind regards,_

_Desdemona Greengrass_

* * *

_17th December 1938_

_Dear Jacen,_

_Don't worry, the contents of these letters will not be revealed to anyone. I don't care about Antoine Rosier and Karkaroff, but you... you have been my friend for over a decade. I will not throw that away, even for Tom Riddle. Truly._

_Continuing from our talk on the train - I agreed with you, that Tom probably enjoys making others suffer, especially for a 11 year old. Could you really blame him, though? Growing up around filthy muggles who thought they had the right to tell you what to do, when you're as strong a wizard as Tom. Would drive the best of us to hatred and madness._

_If anything, it may be because of his background that he is like this. Few of us, having grown up with the comforts of well-bred pureblood families, are like him. I'm not talking just about how crazy smart he is, or how strong his magic is, but how he really wants to change the world. Lots of purebloods talk the talk, but the thought of our manors, our house elves and our darling witches makes us unwilling to do anything real. Tom has nothing to lose. This is his power._

_Tom truly desires change. We both know that one of the strongest powers the Sublime Arts (that is, the Dark Arts, to borrow a term from prigs like Dumbledore) has is that it harnesses a longing for change, in oneself and for one's world. I can think of no one else better than Tom who fits this description._

_But really, think about the choices you have. Wizards like Tom come once a century, and they touch upon everything they see. Whether or not you like it. I suspect that, there will come a time when you will be forced to pick sides. Dru and I will be by Tom. So will Lydia, definitely. What choice do you have?_

_Anyway, moving on._

_How are things at the tower? Have you invited Maestro over?_

_Unfortunately, my parents aren't very keen on having visitors over this break, so you won't be able to come. If you're not busy, perhaps we could meet at Hogsmeade on the 23rd? Heard Yaxley and a couple of fourth year girls will be going._

_Best regards,_

_Langston Emory Mulciber_

* * *

_18th December 1938_

_Dearest Julie,_

_How goes your Christmas? For the fourth year in a row, I'm enjoying the festivity of a quiet Hogwarts. There's a funny irony in all this. Despite that there's only around twenty students staying for the break, the elves and remaining professors furbish the castle with such decorations that one would think that they're hosting a Yule Ball for all of wizarding Britain. Further, you don't even know about this because they_ _**remove** _ _the decorations prior to the resuming of school! It's ridiculous. Criminal, really._

_Of the students staying at Hogwarts, only four are in Ravenclaw. Bless Christmas, as I find the common room to be a place of respite, rather than a place of fatigue, as it usually is._

_I heard that Smackhammer and Hamblin reinstated you to the team. How's that? Are they pleasant towards you? If you need any help with your essays, feel free to owl them to me. I've already completed all my Christmas work._

_Meals are very gratifying during Christmas, too. It seems that, without the burden of having to sustain a little under three hundred students, the elves trade quantity with quality. All fancy restaurant dishes now. There were raw oysters for dinner last night. Raw - served with horseradish and lemons. I find them repulsive. Heard of Tom Riddle? First year Slytherin boy, apparently a magical genius? He absolutely loved the disgusting oysters. Consumed at least two dozen of them. A marking of a budding dark wizard, if I've ever seen one._

_As of late, I've been disposed towards reading about magical genealogy. Did you know that the Smackhammer family was founded by a half-blood? Albgast Smackhammer's father was a muggle Blacksmith, and his mother was a witch named Amiscia Castorblaece. A Blacksmith's job is to smelt tools, weapons, and armour. Albgast fused together wizarding and muggle principles, and so, for many generations, the Smackhammer family profited greatly off selling enchanted armour to muggle Princes and their knights, under the pretext of protection from 'baleful sorcerers'. The Scottish Witchcraft Act of 1649 wouldn't have worked without the help of the Smackhammer family._

_The grand irony of this is that, while the Smackhammers were accomplished metallurgists and charmers indeed, they were too upright, too good, to probe into the depths of dark magic. Thus, while they provided muggles with implements to 'protect' themselves from Wizardkind, they were insufficient in creating defenses against the worst of dark magicians. In fact, the more principled, the more moral a wizard was, the more susceptible they were to these muggle attacks - inquisitions - whereas the truly evil got away scot free. Funny, isn't it?_

_With affection,_

_Charles_

* * *

_18th December 1938_

_Antoine,_

_I am very concerned. You should know that there is nothing which you cannot confide with me. Your letters are never so terse, and when I asked Jürgen how you were, he replied in an evasive, indefinite manner._

_Edouard and Irene had scheduled to visit England to see you. They assumed that you wouldn't stay at Hogwarts over the break- which was also my assumption. You are behaving in a very peculiar way, and I want to know why._

_With love,_

_Mother_

* * *

_19th December 1938_

_Mulce,_

**[... A paragraph as long as the next was completely crossed out; to Langston, it looked like Jace had intentionally spilled an inkwell over it …]**

_What the hell mate? Reading over the beginning bits of your letter was alright but bringing Lydia up as an argument is fucked up. She's my only first cousin. Don't even know my second cousins except for a few. I love the damn girl, you know? Sucks that all your cousins and your brother are older because you don't know how it's like to take care of someone. But just try and imagine. Say, you had a little sister, cause that's what Lydia is to me. Would you feel good knowing that she spends most of her time with and fancies someone like Tom? He all but in name dementor kissed Rosier! You know he gave Rosier a haircut? A fucking haircut. You could argue to me all about that shit. Write about how the wizarding world needs someone to kill the Minister of Magic and all that but what the hell is wrong with you? Trying to play Lydia against me? You know you were even nearly convincing before you bought her up. Don't you dare write to Lydia at all or I will torture your owl to death. Now I see through you. You say you care but really, you're jinxing me behind my back. And to think once I thought you were my best mate._

**[... Another, shorter paragraph was crossed out aggressively …]**

_Things are fine. I'm not inviting you over and I don't give a shit about Yaxley._

_Shit regards,_

_Jacen_

* * *

_21st December 1938_

_Sweet sweet Charlie,_

_What an odd letter from you. Mathilde was very sorry and angry at herself for being mean to me. I forgave her easily because I can't even blame her in the first place. The Tom Riddle boy you said? Mathilde actually says she thinks he did it. You know whoever did it really might become a dark wizard. Mathilde's smart but whoever did it was very very careful. They sent two letters. One to Mathilde, the other to Professor Dippet with the St. Mungo's seal and even used the names of real healers there. They told Smackhammer her mum was dead and her dad wanted to see her as soon as possible. It's really messed up, Charlie. Be careful with the Riddle firstie... Hamblin's never been mean to me. Even when he kicked me off the team he said sorry again and again. He's really a good guy._

_I guess it's nice being with family and all but it feels tense. By the way your owl, whats its name? Your owl's very smart. See, we're in Numidia instead of Paris, so your owl went to Chateau de Villiers-Chapuis and flew to the bird bath which was enchanted to attract owls and portkeyed to our… place here. It took it well and apparated back without trouble. Zoe's owl got freaked out by the apparition and we had to give it treats and let it rest overnight before it was willing to apparate back._

_I don't know how I feel about Numidia. I mean Marsala isn't as cold so it's nice and warm. The sun seems to be out for much longer here than it is in Europe. Maybe it's just how I feel. We saw some crisosphinxes the other day. I always thought their horns would be like unicorns or Erumpets. They're actually see-through and change colour, its really cool. They look really scary if you get close though. Why don't you like oysters, Charlie? Maybe Riddle isn't so bad after all. Kidding. He sounds awful._

_But just the fact we're exiles hangs over our heads you know? Damn Grindelwald. Actually that's a stupid thing to say. You shouldn't even have to say it. It should just be taken for granted that he ruins so much. Anyway, Dad went to school with the Freimagier chief of Paris so we could've stayed there if wanted, but mum said we should come here, blah and blah. Mum didn't know dad was friends with such an evil fellow. She was pretty shocked. But of course, after some arguing dad agreed with mum, so now we're here. I don't know how it'd be like in Paris. At least the adults can say what they want here and get drunk. The Freimagier are arresting anyone who says bad things about Grindelwald and their people in Paris._

_What concerns me is Ludovic, though. He can't sleep at night and he's all scared and shy to talk to our cousins. He only sleeps if he lies with me or mum. And he's going to Hogwarts next year so I worry that he'll have trouble making friends. What do I do?_

_Magical genealogy Charles? Really? I had to ask dad what that meant. Sounds so so SO dull. But the way you talk about the Smackhammers makes is sound interesting. You're good at that. I remember Mathilde told me that her dad's a cursebreaker, mum's a diplomat or something. Doesn't sound like a Blacksmith (I'm still confused what this is. How do Muggles shape metal? Even few wizards know how to safely cast heating charms that hot) to me…_

_With love (sounds better than affection),_

_Julie_

_P.S Thanks for offering to help with my essays but dad will get mad if he finds out, he wants me to do my own work._

* * *

_22nd December 1938_

_Dear Jacen,_

_Please do not be upset with me. It was not my intention to play Lydia against you, like a chess piece. I only want to be realistic. I don't think Lydia will leave Tom's side. If she rows with him, it would greatly endanger her. Don't you see this? She's bound to him. Look, I'll not bring up Lydia again. Don't worry, I won't write to her this break, either. I apologise, but I advise you keep your calm. Your last letter felt like a Gryffindor's. Just think about it._

_The thing I'm trying to say is that we have to think about things without feeling personal about them. No change comes about all nice and peaceful. How do you think the Wizengamot was made? Every great Free Wizard who's wanted to explore more of magic has probably killed dozens of grunts who wanted nothing more the day they died than to return home to a warm meal and a loving witch. Think like a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor._

_You know Grindelwald's slogan? It strikes a chord with me. For The Greater Good? If we want to do anything there will always be horrible violence. If not Tom, then someone else will repeat the Rosier incident one thousand times and more just so stuff could get done._

_How often is a wizard able to do wandless magic at the age of 11? What about dark curses, at the same age? Tom, without a doubt is going to be a great, important wizard one day. Would you not want to stand by his side, instead of the dull magic suffocating Ministry's?_

_Best regards,_

_Langston Emory Mulciber_

* * *

_23rd December 1938_

_Dearest Mother,_

**[...Emestine Rosier's eyes narrowed; Antoine's handwriting had strangely improved so much over just a few days…]**

_I'm sorry that my last letter was so brief. You see, I was in a bit of a rush as I was eager to join a few others in a snowball fight. Hogwarts at Christmas is very nice. All the food's better than it is during the term. Professor Clearwater did some very good charmwork in the Great Hall. Conjured snowflakes are charmed to blow above us by the floating candles. I'm having a great time._

_I didn't think Jürgen would tell you. He and I had a bit of a row in the dorm, and I said some really bad things to him. It was mostly my fault so don't get angry at him please. I started it and misunderstood him trying to help me as being insulting. I think we'll get back together, though. We always do._

_I had no idea about Edouard and Irene! They didn't write me in the past few weeks so I didn't know they wanted to visit me. Summer, then?_

_I also cut my hair. It's short now, and I look more like a boy this way._

_Your son,_

_Antoine_

* * *

_25th December 1938_

_Dearest Julie,_

_Merry Christmas!_

_Thank you so much for your gifts! Aside from Galleon, our head boy that is, you perhaps understand better than anyone my preferences in books. You really didn't need to also gift me the Honeydukes and spending fairies..._

_I hope you enjoyed my present. It's not much. In fact I didn't even buy it- I made it. There's something I need you to do to finalise it though:_

_1\. Say 'Lepo Respiro' [Lepo pronounced 'Le-puh']- no wand waving, just speaking._

_2\. Wait until the colours of the cup disappear and it becomes completely white._

_3\. Now, cast the emotion-perceiving charm- 'Corviquo Sensmenti' [Attached to this letter is a page I ripped out of an old spellbook, detailing wand movements, proper enunciation, etc] on it._

_4\. Hereafter, it will bloom into colourful patterns of different sorts depending on the mood of you and the mood of people around you. If you hold it though, it will only consider your mood._

_5\. Once the colours appear to fully pacify, simply say (again without wand waving, just speaking), 'Lepo Consepio.'_

_I'm glad that Smackhammer has treated you the way she ought to. Hamblin sounds like a textbook Gryffindor hero: all gravitas, no joy. I'm not sure about Tom - I barely know the boy. He does seem to command an undue amount of respect from older Slytherins, though. I advise you to stay away from him. Still, regardless what you think of the ethics of the action, you have to admit that the plan was brilliantly thought out and executed._

_You are giving too much praise to Piccolo. He's subpar by owl standards. Trust me, I know. Zoe's owl must be completely deficient._

_Oysters taste like what I imagine to be mountain troll snot._

_The Freimagier Chief of Paris went to Hogwarts? What? Wouldn't he be a German wizard, if not a French one? Numidia's under the dominion of the French Ministry-in-Exile; why hasn't Grindelwald set a city-wide anti-apparition ward to Numidia? I'm guessing it's under the jurisdiction or implicit power of the Freimagier chief, then?_

_Your brother will be fine. I was just like him at his age. He's only reacting as any ten(?) year old boy would be to moving to a strange place. Maybe help him find an interest. Perhaps a headstart on some first year classes? I'd be willing to help you with that, if you wanted._

_Muggle smiths use hammers, chisels and other tools (without charms, obviously) to shape the metal while it's hot, instead of the remote-hand charms magical smiths used. We harness air to heat charcoals._

_With love,_

_Charles_

* * *

_25th December 1938_

_Merry Christmas, Charles!_

_Thank you for the peculiar chocolates. I'm very proud of you, son. I hope you enjoy the sweaters and scarves I bought. Remember to stay safe and keep warm._

_Love,_

_Mother_

* * *

_25th December 1938_

_Mulce,_

_Merry Christmas you stinking bastard. I admit I was a little too mad earlier. You're mostly right though. Thing with you though Mulce, you with all your wits and fancy essays - you think of things as absolute. Black or white. As though I'm either to wipe Tom's ass and kill everyone who looks at him wrong or become the biggest muggle loving Auror there is. No. I agree that Tom's going to become an important chap one day. That doesn't mean Lydia has to be by his side._

_Veronica and I are over. Why even ask? You saw how she was like between classes, always waiting for me and that. Gets mad at me if I'm five minutes late to a date. Guess I'm keeping a few more galleons come Valentine's day. Feels good. At least I could say I ever had a girlfriend._

_Know what Mulce? I'll stop butting heads with you on this completely, if you agree with me on one thing. I mean I'll give Tom Riddle a big sloppy kiss if he wanted me to if you agree with this. Alright?_

_Help me get Lydia away from Tom. I don't mean have them row or whatever, obviously. I mean we set them apart without arguing somehow. She doesn't have to hate him, or the other way around. Don't think he cares that much about her anyway. What do you reckon?_

_I'm putting a lot of trust in you not to show this to Tom. Consider it me saying that I still trust you despite your hippogriff shit._

_Get back to me soon._

_Jace_

* * *

_28th December 1938_

_Antoine,_

_Before you read this letter, ensure that you are in a place where no one could spy on you. Once you're done reading, burn it._

_I met the Greengrasses in Paris today. I talked to Mercuzio's youngest daughter, Desdemona, your fifth year prefect. I asked her about you, and like Jürgen, she seemed to have misgivings to divulge much about your activity at school. Are you indulging in Dark Magic? If so, please make sure that you're more discreet about it, as a well-endowed fifth-year girl seems apprehensive to even talk about you._

_Dark Magic should purely be a means of self-preservation, not self-actualisation. You may think that Dark Magic is a neutral force which can be rationally harnessed for personal objectives. Magic is never a dispassionate force. The spells you cast will always come back to you and alter your soul in a fundamental way. In this respect, Dark Magic is particularly liable to produce obsession and sickness within its practitioner. Dark texts will never state this, implicitly, or explicitly._

_I'm advising you on the basis of personal experience. I don't want to see you end up like your father, or your aunt, Vinda._

_With love,_

_Mother_

* * *

_28th December 1938_

_Jacen_ ,

_A late Merry Christmas to you. My parents also extend their festive regards._

_I am sorry that Veronica and you did not work out. For what it's worth, you two looked weird together anyway. Her neat blonde hair against your messy black. Her small smiles against your big, stupid grins. Her being weirdly short, even for a girl, and you being as tall as a professional chaser without the body. You were like a house elf and a troll trying to mate._

_I'm glad beyond describing that you're still happy to be friends with me. I agree with you. Despite what you might think, I care a lot about Lydia too. She's in some of my earliest memories, along with you. She's family to me. I agree, and I regret that I didn't think of trying to separate her from Tom while still maintaining her allegiance to Tom as a possible thing to do. I was stupid._

_So how do we go about it? She doesn't listen to us anymore. The one thing we have on our side is that Tom doesn't care for her all the time. It's like he can't make his mind up. Perhaps we try get her with a new chap, and Tom with a new girl? It may take a while though. I think Lydia's just going through a period, but you know how girls can be. It could take months before we can do anything subtle, even. Talk more on the Hogwarts express, yeah?_

_Best regards,_

_Langston Emory Mulciber_

* * *

_29th December 1938_

_To my favourite oyster-naysayer,_

_Your enchanted cup is BRILLIANT. I showed it to mum, dad and my cousins and they were all really, really impressed. Mum asked me if you were my boyfriend… Anyway, right now the cup's top is pink and the bottom is blue. Small flowers look like they're blowing in wind hanging from the edge. It's really cool. I let Ludovic hold it a few times and it's mostly shades of green for him. I hope that doesn't mean he's going to be a Slytherin…_

_We had lots of seafood on Christmas. I had oysters but they weren't raw, they were fried in Numidian spices and served with this spicy but sweet paste. They were really, really good. We can't be friends anymore if you don't like oysters!_

_Back to the cup though. Ludovic really likes it and I think that charms might be his fun thing to do. He's good at them too! Remember how I tried to charm your scarf half Ravenclaw half Gryffindor but it turned into blue and red stripes? I tried it again on my own Gryff scarf and it ended up just being yellow and silver stripes! So I gave Ludovic my wand and told him the incantation and all and he managed to get it half half! He's really taken with the cup. Although I hope he becomes a Gryff if he becomes a Raven (which is looking likely) I hope you take him under your care._

_And don't worry I don't plan on getting all smoochy close with a Slytherin firstie. Especially after what he did to Mathilde. I don't care if a plan is brilliant or whatever, it's just plain evil Charles. You shouldn't say it's a good thing._

_I think you're being unfair to your owl. All the girls in my dorm have written to me and all their owls aren't as quick and smart as yours, trust me! But yes Zoe's owl is rather slow. It's 28 though. That's like 100 in people years._

_But yeah the Freimagier Chief in Paris went to Hogwarts with dad. Dionysius Rowle. A Slytherin, to no one's surprise. He joined up with Grindelwald when he was just beginning. And Grindelwald probably doesn't like to bother with small things like the CONTROL of an ENTIRE magical city so Chief Rowle can do whatever he wants in Paris. But I mean dad's a Slytherin so maybe they're not all bad. Dad likes you you know? With the cup you gave me he thinks you're really out to become someone._

_I can't begin to wrap my head around how muggles do all that basic stuff. How does air make charcoal hot? But it is very impressive. Mum said that muggles fly in winged metal cans that shoot fire when they fight. Even with enchantments that would be impressive to build by a wizard…_

_Anyway, can't wait to see you back at school and show my friends your enchanted cup._

_Lots of love,_

_Julie_

* * *

_3rd January 1939_

_Lang,_

_Thank you for the galleons, I have indeed received them. They will do well for the cause._

_You're unfairly harsh on our parents. It's only proper that they are worried about their eldest son, who they have well founded reason to believe is in mortal jeopardy._

_I expect nothing less than excellence from you. You were top in potions last year. What happened with that?_

_Ask Riddle to predicate his research on his middle name; Marvolo. Its etymology is clearly magical. If what you say is true, then I am most glad that we have another budding Free Wizard. I cannot divulge much, but know that Grindelwald has his sights on Britain. Not a fledged invasion; just some underhanded work, but it will not be so delicate that it goes unnoticed._

_Also, be careful in making sure that the ventures Riddle and yourself undertake are confidentially secure. Although you haven't expounded on the particulars of your activities, I'm no fool as to the nature of the magic you're performing. You better have your wits honed and ready, for punishments far worse than expulsion await, should you be caught._

_Regards,_

_Your brother, Thorell_


End file.
